


Slouching Toward Bethlehem

by o_antiva



Series: Fearful Symmetry [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Buddhist cosmology, Dark Comedy, Evil CyberLife (Detroit: Become Human), Heavy Rain/DBH shared universe, Mentions of Suicide, Multi, Nightmare Before Christmas References, No Heavy Rain spoilers, Other RK units, Political Ramifications, Slow Burn, Unique RK900, buddy cop, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-09-23 02:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 56,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17071634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o_antiva/pseuds/o_antiva
Summary: What Hank told them was this: Connor had a choice and he chose the power of good. He could have joined the machine uprising. He could have burnt everyone’s skeleton to a chain-link fence. He could have gone full Dolores. He could have become Death, destroyer of worlds. But no, he just strolled back into the precinct like vintage John Mulaney in his high-waisted man routine.And, why? Who knows. Who the fuck knows. Hank wonders if the RK800 team at CyberLife can even figure this shit out, and they built him. Weirder than that, and maybe worse than that, the hyper-advanced AI investigator has decided to imprint itself on Hank, so now he’s got to teach Connor about the important things about life, like action movies and the Metallica Black album. And he’s got to get his own shit together.December 2038. Captain Fowler assigns Reed to work with Hank and Connor in an overwhelmed precinct. Reed is tasked with an unusual android case out of spite, while Hank assists Connor in adjusting to life at the station. Just as Connor -53 starts to hit his stride, strange memories begin to surface: corrupted data, an advanced RK model, and the horrifying implications of past lives in CyberLife Tower.





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh, the weather outside is bullshit… ”

Leather workboots crunch over salt-encrusted sidewalk as Gavin Reed strolls up to the apartment complex. He spins his car keys in his glove as he half-hums, half-sings to himself. It gets dark early in the evenings now and he hopes he can wrap this shit up as quickly as possible.

The front office lady gives him a cautious look through the glass of the lobby doors. She’s in a sharp turquoise pantsuit with a gold lapel pin. Impressive weave. If he'd have known this place was so fancy, he'd have worn his _formal_ leather jacket.

“Are you the detective I spoke to on the phone?” she asks him on activating the doors. 

“Yeah, that’s me,” he says, and he makes a show of wiping his boots before he comes in. He clips off his badge to show her. “I just wanna talk to this guy, that’s all. Maybe he has some answers for me.”

Her eyelashes dip with suspicion, but her professional mask never falters. “You don’t have a warrant,” she states.

“Don’t need one yet. We’re just talking. The apartment in this section, or across the street?”

“Ninth floor, east building— this building.” She withdraws with understated elegance. “I’ll leave you to it.”

This place is nice, too nice. The lobby gleams like a showroom. The potted plants are so fancy and professional, they probably go home at night to a studio loft of their own. The curved screen projector is showing an aerial shot of CyberLife Tower as the news ticker scrolls by, _'--INTENSIFIED CALLS FOR HER RESIGNATION--_ '

Reed gets into the elevator, a roomy and spacious affair with wood panels and shiny brass accents. There’s a massive wreath cut from live fir and it's all you can smell. Like Kris Kringle himself let out a fart in here. Jesus Christ this place is nice. When Reed first moved to Detroit he couldn’t have even rented out this elevator.

How did this dumbass guy afford living in a place like this? Daddy paying for it all? Why’d he get mixed up in this shit? Just smoke weed like everybody else. 

Reed just shakes his head, stewing in evergreen stink and obnoxious holiday music.

At the “giddy up jingle horse” part of the song, the elevator dings at the third floor. Doors open and a handsome guy in a black blazer gets in.

“Hello, Detective Reed.” Connor smiles at him, holds a hand to his tie clip, and leans in to punch the close doors button. “What floor are we going to?”

Smothering self-disgust, Reed rears back and snaps out, “ _We_ aren’t doing shit. Get out of my elevator.”

“Detective, please. We were directed to accompany you on this mission.”

“Okay, first? Anderson is not my partner. _You_ are not my partner.”

“Best practice is to go with backup. It’s for your safety.”

“Second— “

“Detective Collins’ injury is unfortunate, but in the meantime, Lieutenant Anderson and I—”

“You’re not even officially on the force!” 

“Thus Lieutenant Anderson.” Connor smiles with infinite patience. “He’s in the west building and on his way.”

“How did you even _get_ here?” 

“I saw you enter the lobby from the back garage.”

“Did you fucking, like, parkour up here to cut me off?” Reed groans. “I’m not doing this. Get out.” 

The RK800 stops the elevator. Reed's blood pressure spikes; he's boxed in now by the human-seeming shape of the planet's apex predator. It looms its plastic and metal frame closer, a plaintive look arranging on its face. “Detective."

"Don't you trap me in here," Reed hisses. "I said get out."

"Gavin."

"Cease all motor functions."

Connor presses his perfect lips in something that looks like sympathy. In the overhead lights Reed can pick out individual freckles that accent his face. Pitching his voice lower, almost soothingly, Connor tells him, “I don’t begrudge you for attacking me in the evidence room. I completely understand. Armed with the information you had at the time, you had every reason to believe—”

“What do you want from me?" Reed hates how his voice whines out just now. He hates this, all this shit down at the precinct.

“All I want is for us to be able to work together.” Up close, Connor smells like an intriguing blend of neroli oil, vanilla, and rum. “Gavin?”

Reed splays his fingers against his head as if that will hold his shit together. He takes a deep breath, drops his hands, and folds his arms tight. “Let me tell you something. I’m just here to talk to this guy and see if I can see any bullshit in plain sight. I don’t want your over-achieving ass to get all excited and fuck this up. You are in a weird legal standing right now and I’ve been working this case too long to get it thrown out over some technicality. Do _not_ fuck this up. You get me?”

“I get you. My thoughts exactly, as it happens. I’ll act strictly as an observer and consultant.” Connor stands back, mercifully. His puppy eyes soften and glisten. “Unless I need to ensure your personal safety.”

Reed will never forget the impossible strength and unyielding force of this android. Its sheer power and alien determination. They made it look so soft and trusting, but he knows what it’s capable of. The precinct is starting to forget that, cause Connor's so nice and sweet and helpful and all. Connor came back. But Reed knows what he is-- and Connor knows too.

“Don't do anything,” Reed mutters to him as he slinks into the corner. He hits the floor button. “Don’t say anything.”

“I don’t take orders from you,” Connor tells him cheerfully, “but I’ll do my best to assist. Did you know that your case might have significant overlap with the one that we’re working?” 

Reed sighs as a weird, sinking feeling sets in. “Where’s Anderson?”

“On his way. He says to go ahead without him.”

Ol’ Hank’s looking a little rough these days. He always looks like shit anymore but there’s a new dimension to it now. If Reed has to guess, LT has decided to clean up his act and quit cold turkey. That and there’s that stomach bug that the whole precinct seems to be passing around. Patient zero is Jacobs, that fucker never washes his hands.

Just as Gavin fixes his bodycam snug to his shirt, the elevator levels out with a ding.

Reed gets out on the ninth floor breezeway and Connor follows him with perfect spacing and posture. It’s like a mannequin followed him out of the mall.

News says it’s gonna snow tonight. Hope this shit doesn’t take long, but he’s got this hunch. He just knows this is going to get all stupid. “What’s the overlap?” he says to Connor. “Your case and my case?”

“There may be a connection between a new form of Red Ice and harvesting android biocomponents." He swears he hears a whirring sound from somewhere. "Detective, you shouldn’t walk with your hands in your pockets; you could slip.”

Reed gives him a look over his shoulder, like, are you fucking kidding me. “Thanks mom,” he says. “Hey, and fuck you, there’s nothing new about that. These guys have been cooking ice out of androids for years now.”

“As I said, a _new form_ of Red Ice. Were you aware of the suspect’s pictures on social media?”

“That’s why I’m here, that's how I found this out. Dumbass is in a bunch of selfies with the victim.” 

Connor looks pleased. “Good thinking, detective.” 

“Thanks for the head-pat. You know, technology is a thing that humans _also_ use.” Reed takes his gloves out of his jacket pockets, but not because Connor told him to. It’s only been two minutes but he’s already tired of this. He’s tired, his eyes hurt. His teeth hurt. Fuck his teeth hurt right now.

So, some other dumbass answers the door. White kid, early twenties, face like a thumb. His bloodshot eyes look black in the building’s exterior lights, and when he cracks the door, the cat-piss smell of Red Ice comes wafting out like cartoon stink lines.

The guy's red eyeballs do this ping-pong thing from Gavin’s badge to Connor’s LED, LED to badge, badge to Gavin’s face. Then the guy hollers back into the apartment: “Dude— dude, come quick!” He sounds so excited.

Even more high, and holding a fucking pipe in his hand at that-- Jesus Christ these criminals are fucking stupid-- the suspect comes teetering up to the door. He’s a weedy white boy with a punchable face. “Dude,” he says, looking between Gavin and the android. “Are you Elijah Kamski?”

There’s a universe of awe and wonder in his voice. 

Connor swivels his head to regard Gavin like a curious security camera. Gavin straight-up _feels_ Connor scanning him with his eyeball instruments, probably giving him a fucking tumor.

This Kamski lookalike shit annoys Reed at the best of times, but know what, right now he breaks into a big smile full of holiday cheer. “That's me, surprise, I brought you a new robot friend for Christmas.” 

Suspect looks like he might cry. “Really?” he gasps, and for a microsecond Gavin wonders if he can just shove Connor through the door, shut it, and go home. 

But he's been working this case for too long, soo... badge up. “Nah man. DPD, you’re under arrest.”

Thumb Face Guy says, “Dude, seriously?”

“Seriously, _dude_." God, Connor is such a god damn dork. “That’s Red Ice paraphernalia and my sensors are pinging from here.” There’s a huge goofy smile on his face. CyberLife made him with dimples, just like an evil mega corporation would totally do.

The two chumps look at each other, and Reed’s starting to move when the suspect whips the pipe in his face and bursts off running.

Motherfuck! The glass doesn’t break but his vision whites out a second, his cheek throbbing. The suspect’s already down the breezeway, a blur of blue pastel polo, Connor in close pursuit.

The next part’s a hit down at the precinct, almost tied with that clip of the spaghetti cup incident. The guys patch together the video from Reed’s bodycam, the apartment complex security footage, and Connor’s fucking eyeballs. 

They’re calling it: Red Ice-sin’s Creed.

Everybody makes far too much of this, but the gist is, some whacked-out chase with railing jumps, gutter climbs, tweaker reflexes, and death-defying android leaps. Reed has the second highest marks in fitness in the precinct, and he goes to an MMA gym with a rock wall, for fuck’s sake, but RK800 -53 is a wild parkour demon who runs like a kid from an anime.

They chase that dumbass Icer all over that fucking complex, up and down stairwells, over the railings, through the snow banks, around the bike racks, and back into the sparkling wonder of the lobby.

Here’s the thing: Gavin kinda loves what happens next, but not what happens after that.

The suspect races through the lobby toward the front doors when Hank Anderson steps out and kicks a potted plant, sending it sliding right into the suspect’s feet. The guy goes tits-up and wipes out on the polished tile floors.

It looks great on video. Loop some Christmas music in there, bam, instant holiday hit.

Bet you forgot about Anderson. Gavin did, but holy shit, for just a flash it’s like the old LT is back. Anderson is a rascally old bastard when he wants to be.

Reed’s putting the cuffs on when the suspect looks up, red-nosed, red-teethed, red-eyed, and sobs, “Mr. Kamski, why are you being _so mean_?”-- a thing that Gavin now hears said to him at the station at least once a fucking day from now on. 

They arrest Thumb Guy too, for good measure, but he goes quiet without a fight. The RK800 looks so disappointed that Anderson even gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. This evil motherfucker just really loves to chase and catch people. Really missed his calling. Coulda been great in the role of an animatronic in a haunted pizza parlor.

But there’s no keeping the droid down for long because it forces its people-face into a huge grin and says, “We make a good team, Detective Reed. I look forward to working with you for the remainder of the month.”

Gavin’s had enough for the day. He’s just had enough, the other officers can take it from here. Tweaker adventure, Connor’s dumb face, the weather. His boots and socks are wet when he jumped from the balcony onto a snowbank. His cheek stings from the pipe, he might be getting a rash, and the titanium screws in his teeth are throbbing in the cold.

“You know, Connor,” Reed tells him as they split at last in the parking lot. “I used to hate you cause I thought you were piloted around by a team of CyberLife creeps playing you like an e-sport. But now? I think I could start to hate you for _you_.” 

Connor tilts his head like a German shepherd puppy with big floppy ears. That’s what it wants you to think of. Big fluffy snowflakes are starting to catch in his hair.

In a fake voice of hurt feelings, but with its liquid dark eyes gleaming with pure evil, the RK800 asks, “Mr. Kamski, why are you being so mean?”

Anderson hoots out crusty laughter as the two of them clamber into his shitty old car. The multi-million dollar murder-machine turns on the radio with robot telepathy and grins through the window like the little psycho he is.

Reed holds a steady middle finger as their shitty vehicle peels away from the parking lot. Is Connor seriously blasting him with Christmas music right now, god damn.

No fucking way he’s gonna do this for a month.


	2. Chapter 2

It went down like this.

Connor came back, and he wanted the desk beside Hank’s. The big idea was to ease everybody into it, make an announcement, answer questions, but Connor jumped right into it like he always jumped right into everything.

Hank showed up to find the precinct a barren landscape of desks and polyurethane chairs, Connor standing by himself with a quizzical expression on his face. He was completing a scan when the first brave soul emerged from safety.

Connor saved Wilson’s life on a rooftop months ago, three lifetimes ago for poor RK800. Wilson made a show of casual welcome, like it was all good, like half the precinct hadn’t taken cover in the briefing room and the break area.

“Hey, Connor, good to see you again, man. How’s it going?”

Connor shook his hand and said, “Oh, it’s _going_ , how’re you?”

Then Tina Chen holstered her weapon and came out, straightening her uniform, because might as well, fuck it all. “Yo Connor,” she said, “you find any deviants?”

“ _So many.”_

She scrunched up her nose. “Dude,” she grunted. “Markus was _right_ there. What happened?” 

Connor tweaked his tie, smiled his screwy smile, and said, “Well Tina, I fucked up.”

* * *

What Hank told them was this: Connor had a choice and he chose the power of good. He could have joined the machine uprising. He could have burnt everyone’s skeleton to a chain-link fence. He could have gone full Dolores. He could have become Death, destroyer of worlds. But no, he just strolled back into the precinct like vintage John Mulaney in his high-waisted man routine.

And, why? Who knows. Who the fuck knows. Hank wonders if the RK800 team at CyberLife can even figure this shit out, and they built him. Weirder than that, and maybe worse than that, the hyper-advanced AI investigator has decided to imprint itself on Hank, so now he’s got to teach Connor about the important things about life, like action movies and the Metallica Black album. And he’s got to get his own shit together.

The evacuation was a mistake, ill-advised and unenforceable. Heavy snow, rolling power outages, and panicky political failures combined to make mid-to-late November a shitshow in Detroit. It was so bad at one point that Jericho turned out to plow roads and fix lines. It was said Markus was the first of them to help, to be an example, that he went into hospitals to check on people too hurt or too sick to get out. 

And Markus himself, Man of the Year, the magazine cover displaying the iconic kiss presented without comment. All the world over Markus was called extraordinary, historic, phenomenal, a miracle. 

If you’d have gone back twenty years and told Hank that in 2038, the question of whether or not we were alone in the universe would be answered, and the answer was this-- the nursing assistant to bisexual legend and libertine, the infamous artist-intellectual Carl Manfred— Hank would have laughed and said you must have done as much coke as ol’ Carl back in the eighties.

But these days, Hank knows better, and he’s worried about the rest of the year. There’s almost thirty-some days left in 2038 and so much more weird shit could still happen.  


And _did_ happen, like all the CyberLife deaths, that giant explosion, and crazy religious cult nonsense. And who could forget that whole zoo runaway incident with Gavin Reed, how the fuck did _that_ end up being so pivotal? Who the fuck even knows.

Who the fuck even knows. 

Merry fucking Christmas.

* * *

So here it is, the New Normal. Hank picks Connor up every day before work, always someplace different. One time it was a library, one time it was the Motown Museum. One time it was at an intersection with a bronze plaque that Connor was rattling off to him, something about this being the same site where some crazy French fur trapper froze his balls off back in 1838 or some shit, jesus christ Connor just get in the car and close the goddam door. “It’s cold as shit and people are gonna think you’re a streetwalker.”

This morning, Connor mind-texts him the address of a coffee shop, and he’s got a large travel cup steaming in his hands. Manna from heaven. It snowed last night, just enough to be annoying, and Hank’s half-frozen from shoveling out the car.

He doesn’t know where Connor goes at night. Of course he’s asked; he wants to be sure that Connor’s safe and warm and dry. That he’s got all the stuff that he needs, whatever that is. Nobody gave him an instruction manual for the RK800 series. But Connor gets cagey and insists he’s all right, he’s staying in a good place, so who knows what that means. 

Hank worries about it some, sure, but Connor will tell him when he’s ready.

Topic of the morning is Gavin Reed. Connor’s just so excited they’re going to team up. The lever broke off his Making Friends Engine and he’s running full speed ahead, no stops, no brakes, into Harmony and Synergy and Efficiency.

One efficient guy, that’s Connor.

He’s like some busy-bodied herding dog that nips and chases sheep from pasture to pasture. At least he keeps time ruthlessly at staff meetings so there’s no going over anymore. Connor hates that shit.

Hank’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Look, I like the enthusiasm, but Reed’s not a team player.”

“Neither are you,” Connor replies with one of those knowing looks the dad of the family makes in those old black and white sitcoms. 

“I used to be. Look; Reed’s always been an asshole. Always will be.”

“Well, _I_ think some attitude adjustment is in order.” Hank glances over to make sure Connor isn’t attaching a silencer to his sidearm. Nope, he’s just starting to dick around with the radio knobs. “I’m going to ignore bad behavior and reward positive contributions.”

“Hrm. So, you can do sounds and voices, right? Can’t you just go off like an airhorn whenever he starts on some shit?” 

Connor whips a crazy grin at him.

Hank smiles back at the road. Heh-heh. “Look. Let’s just… get through the month, okay.”

* * *

Right as they badge in, Hank can hear Reed arguing. No one’s really sure where the guy is from, but he’s one of those quick-witted, quick-talking guys who might be East Coast, always so pushy and ready to fight. The defense lawyers hate him here, along with some of the judges. So long as he can keep out of contempt of court, Detective Reed always knocks out a savage expert testimony.

But ol’ Jeff takes no shit whatsoever, and never any from Reed. Hank can’t make out the exact words but he doesn’t need to.

The bullpen is busy with phones and monitors and at least five television monitors streaming the latest news-- _JERICHO ISSUES STATEMENT CALLING FOR UNITY AND COOPERATION_ \-- but Hank can see the slip of white in people’s eyes as they steal a look toward Thunderdome. Everybody loves to see Gavin get reamed.

Someone’s taped a print-out to a monitor at Gavin’s desk. It’s a screenshot from security footage and it shows Reed laid out unconscious on the floor of the evidence room. Been captioned with, HE KNOWS WHEN YOU ARE SLEEPING.

There’s a Santa hat photoshopped on Reed’s head.

Connor is standing behind his own desk, one hand hovering over the console. His eyes are fixed on Fowler’s office.

A sudden uptick in volume. Quick motions, tense body language.

Reed’s springing out of his chair with some passionate defense but Fowler shuts him down. The captain’s voice reverberates inside the glass cube of death like a depth charge going off. 

The door opens and Reed’s voice spills out, “I have my cases and they have theirs! I don’t even _have_ any android cases!”

And Fowler flings a portfolio at his chest. “There! Now you have one!” 

Silence roars all around them. No sound except for Phillips biting into a granola bar. 

Reed dips two fingers into the portfolio, glances down, glances back up again. “Cap’n— " he says in a weird, queasy voice, "d'you print this out on paper and put this in a folder just to fuck with me?”

"Damn right, Reed. Merry Christmas, and get the fuck outta my office.”

It’s that kind of power move that speaks to men like Reed. He backs off with a stunned and subtle expression, going away like a man in a cowboy movie who discovers a gunshot wound by touching red. People give him a wide berth, but eyes follow him out to the breakroom. Heads lean in and whisper. Old Murphy snorts. Connor starts to move that way but Hank gets a grip on his blazer. “Nuh uh, let him go.”

Then Fowler yells, “Anderson, you got the podium! _TWO_ minutes.” 

Fuck. It’s been ages since he’s had to brief, but, all right. New beginnings. Show ‘em how it’s done. He hates it when people dawdle at the podium, struggling through their slides. Be quick. Be concise. Let everyone get on with their day.

Hank sees some curiosity in the rows of faces before him. Scrutiny, too. And maybe one or two people look approving to find him up there again, after all this time. Old Mike Murphy is nodding his head slowly, an ancient patrolman who used to walk beats with a mastodon. 

Connor sits in the front row like a teacher’s pet. He's attentive, professional, looking cute and clean-cut, just absorbing his surroundings. The fingers of his right hand are playing with a tiny Christmas ornament the size of a fishing bobber. Fowler's weird secretary has taped up paper and plastic holiday decorations around the briefing room, candy canes, snowflakes, green trees, and so on.

Tradition dictates that every DPD case update begins with a video clip. Most of the time, it’s some footage from the wild and wacky world of law enforcement. While Hank sets up, he lets Jacobs pick what they’re going to watch. Jacobs is in some closed social media groups from cops around the country, so they get some good shit. There's some pressure for some "spaghetti cup bandit" content but Hank isn't convinced that video could be as good as they say.

This one’s a wild chase out of Dallas from the vantage point of a police helicopter. Two squad cars are in pursuit of a banged-up blue sedan. Must be an old-type car that won’t drive itself. Hank squints over his notes to see what’s so special about this particular chase. 

Old Murphy says what Hank is thinking: “Son, when you’ve seen as many chases as I have— _been_ in as many chases as I have—”

Tina Chen snorts. “Just watch.”

The suspect knows he’s fucked when he comes off-ramp and sees the checkpoint waiting for him. But here’s where it tickles Hank’s interest: the blue car rolls up on the off-ramp— cops are racing toward him on foot from the checkpoint— and you can see the exact moment he makes his decision.

The blue sedan squeals up across the overpass and guns down the exit into oncoming traffic.

The crazy bastard drives high speed against traffic for miles. Self-driving traffic. He gets away with it. He gets away and nobody got hurt.

Connor is leaning in, looking at the screen, his blue light revolving in thought.

“Driver an android?” Hank asks. Okay, this got his attention.

“Don’t know,” says Jacobs. “This was a couple weeks ago. Wild huh?”

Phillips sits back, brushing crumbs off his uniform. "That's like that movie, Heavy Rain. Except, y'know, for real."

Tina Chen snorts. “Seriously, man?” Ben Collins lets out a laugh. Once a month, like clockwork, Ben, Tina, and Gavin can be found shooting the shit in the breakroom, going over the latest update from Madison Paige. Her blog's been quiet for the last month; there's been rumors.

Hank just shakes his head. “Phillips, here’s some homework for you. I want you to look up the Origami Killer case and tell me what the cops did wrong.”

Connor looks from face to face intently. Of course _he_ wants some homework, too. But before he can open his mouth to say anything, Hank goes, “All right, game on. You each got thirty seconds unless I say otherwise.”

So it’s like this: The precinct is overworked and undermanned. The upcoming schedule looks grim, a grueling stapled-together patchwork of man-hours all into Christmas and beyond. But what they don’t know yet is Hank is going to take a few shifts from these people. They’ll need a break. He’ll need a distraction.

The big item right now is the resurgence in Red Ice-related crimes. The post-revolution glut of android parts has led to aggressive scavenging, break-ins, theft, and murder, as the networks scramble in the chaos.

There might be a new form of Red Ice in circulation. They’re awaiting a follow-up from local labs and Fowler’s DEA contact.

Uncharacteristically, Reed is late for the briefing. Hank gives him a pass on it because, shit, he hasn’t had the best record lately and it would be bullshit if he called Reed out on it.

That’s why you got to get your shit together to be an example to your people. Hank knows this, deep and shameful. He’s working on it.

Connor looks up expectantly, a good boy saving Gavin a seat.

Reed goes to the back, drinking his coffee and reading his file. Connor’s anguished look trail afters him; it’s like the bad boy ignoring an act of goodwill by the girl on the yearbook committee.

“Reed, you’ll be assisting Connor and I on cases involving Red Ice and android crimes.”

“Oh, good,” says Gavin. “Sure.” He’s in his fake-nice, simmering stage. Classic Reed symptoms of impending drama. The magma is building up.

Ben Collins gives him a wincing smile from where he sits in his aisle seat, his plaster cast jutting out. He took a hell of a spill in the parking lot last week.

Jacobs doesn’t even hold back his smirk. “Hey Reed. What’s the new case you got? Your hot new android case?” 

“Is it my turn to update?” Reed looks up from his file as if asking Hank’s permission; Hank smirks and prompts him with a nod, just go, fuck's sake. Gotta be dramatic all the time. “Well. Funny thing you asked.” 

Perfectly serious, Reed says, “A time-honored cultural institution of this city has reported the loss of an asset valued at a quarter million.”

“Androids aren’t assets anymore,” says Phillips, as if he didn’t make the same fucked up comments everyone else did just a month ago. “They’re people.”

Gavin gets a shitty squint of a look, and then he smiles. “Thank you, Officer Woke, but as it happens— the missing android isn’t a person.”

Hank grunts. Hell if he’s going to let Reed grandstand here. “We’re waiting on you, Reed,” he says. “Brief’s just about done and you’re all that’s standing between me and my coffee.”

Gavin licks his fingertips and plucks out a sheet of paper from his portfolio. “TR500, last four 3-103. Answers to the name of ‘Khan.’” 

Connor looks thoughtful. “The zoo is missing an android tiger?”

Old Murphy lets out a burst of a laugh. “This is what you get and you know it, Reed.”

Mendes is shaking his head, grinning.

Gavin smiles back, as big and fake as the homecoming queen.

Jacobs sits back with a laugh. “Holy shit, you have to go look for a robot tiger?”

Gavin’s face is impassive. “Yes, Jacobs. If it turns out to be theft, it’s grand larceny. We _do_ investigate these things. Don’t worry, LT— “ he shuts the folder and holds it against his chest. “Not only will I solve this case— I’ll have that tiger back before Christmas.”

* * *

_On the fifth day of Christmas—_

_\--In defiance of the order, eight military units refused in November to--_

_\--Christmas, Christmas time is near / Time for toys and time for cheer--_

_—their android comrades-in-arms—_

_\--They never let poor Rudolph--_

_\--vice president distancing himself from allegations--_

_\--I have no gift to bring, pa-rum-pum-pum-pum--_

_—died on the scene of an accident today in Lansing--_

_\--Oh, you better watch out, you better not cry--_

"Goddam, Connor, just pick a station."

"None of these are the songs I want."

"Listen to the news, then. Lot of weird shit happening lately in case you haven't noticed."

"I've downloaded all the news. A CyberLife employee died today."

Could be a coincidence, but probably not. Not if you ask Hank. CyberLife has a hell of a lot to answer for. "You know him? This guy?"

If Connor's bothered by the news, he shows no sign of it. "I don't recognize the name." Clearly he has his own priorities. "Anyway, I'm looking for a song."

Hank lets that be, for now. "We can stream from my phone," he offers. "You can set it up."

"I can download all the songs and listen to them at once, but it’s not the same as experiencing them naturally."

So Hank has to suffer through a continued and extended bout of holiday music. Good thing he's not tired of it after five decades. Not at all.

They’re looping off the highway into a crumbling exit of potholes and gritty salt mix. Blocks of ramshackle buildings go by, some boarded up, some still holding on. Even the snow looks dirty. It's the kind of exhausted landscape that makes Hank feel like climbing back into bed. He's tired already, and gunk is building in his chest. He wants a burning sharp sip of something.

Connor looks up from messing with the radio. “Gavin Reed is not well-liked around the station,” he says.

“Nooooo.”

“But he’s a good detective.”

“He is. That’s the part that always gets me.”

“His poor social relation skills are standing in the way of maximum efficiency.”

“He’s made a lot of enemies, and if you think people hate him here, I can point at two other precincts that would gladly feed him down a woodchipper.”

“How did this start?”

“He showed up here with an attitude. A chip on his shoulder. I tried to take him in under my wing— but he was having none of it.” At least Sammy started making inroads, but then, fuck. 

There's a slow blue light turning in the reflection on the passenger window. “Something happened back in New York," Connor murmurs. "He can't trust anyone now. Not anyone on the force, at least.”

“I guess, whatever. Look. Don’t get your hopes up with Reed. Some people are just shit, okay?”

Connor turns his head, dark eyes glinting. “But he’s not shit. He has the highest case solve rate of anyone in the precinct for three years running." His voice takes on a certain, assy tone. "This will change in 2039, but for the time being—”

“Just dial down the settings on your Getalong Matrix, okay?”

“I don’t have a Getalong Matrix. That’s not a technical term, Hank.”

“This all because he looks like a dollar-store Kamski?” They’re at a red light, so Hank grins at him. “This getting you on some subliminal level?”

Connor selects _Bitchy Look_ from his expression library. “Hank, my facial recognition software is state of the art.”

“But you do see it, right?”

“… a little," mutters Connor as he looks out the window.

* * *

Reed waits for them at their crime scene. It’s a boarded-up dump of a building at the edge of an abandoned strip mall. In past lives the building had been a video rental place, a mattress store, then a payday loans, before a broken water pipe damaged the site beyond repair. At least as far as anyone wanted to pay for it. The city barely made a pass with the plow, so the uneven pavement is humped over with gritty banks of snow with scraps of trash and plastic showing through.

“So walk me through what happened,” Reed says by way of greeting. His hands are thrust in his jacket pockets. He’s going to slip on the ice if he walks like that. You think a guy who once busted his teeth out would get that, but, whatever.

Hank prompts Connor with a nod, and he gets them into the building while the RK800 gives his rundown. The two humans are going to put on face masks for this.

“Two days ago, a passing android detected a distress signal originating from this building. He discovered a cache of android parts and Red Ice paraphernalia.” 

Connor enters the building first; he can see in the dark, but Hank’s rustling out his flashlight. Reed is already prepared and his beam sweeps into the disgusting interior.

The cat piss smell of Red Ice is overwhelming. Hank coughs into his sleeve. Reed’s going to tough it out, but his eyes are starting to water already.

“Distress signal?” he says, muffled through the mask.

“Yes, it emanated from an android reduced to a head and a torso; she’s at Jericho now, recovering.”

Back when the crime scene was bustling, the CSI guys set up portable lights everywhere so you could see in this deathtrap. Now that they’ve stripped everything pertinent out of the place, there’s really no reason. But Reed insisted, so here they are, in the choking dark. 

Connor’s eyes glow like an animal’s when he turns his head back toward them. There’s no fog of breath from his mouth in the cold. “If you check your phone, you’ll see snapshots from the scene as it looked when we found it.”

“See the camp stove in the pictures?” Hank points out where in the main sales area it was found, propped up on the checkout counter. Scorch marks all around. “That’s how they’re cooking it now.”

“But they always could,” Reed shoots back. “I mean, small-batch shit.”

“They technically could,” Hank replies, “but they didn’t. Too much trouble. Too much risk. If you’re gonna cook pure thirium, you need a lot of heat, a lot of space, and a lot of time. Oh and you can’t fuck it up or you get an explosion.”

“So this new Red Ice, what's new about it? You’re telling me the end product is the same, more or less.”

“More or less— the lab guys think there’s some adulterants cooked into it.”

“It’s the process that’s different,” Connor points out.

Holding the flashlight with one hand, his phone with the other, Reed walks himself around the dilapidated payday loans. “So. This new way of cooking it, not technically new, but it’s gaining more traction. Whatever’s changed, they can make Red Ice faster and at less risk to themselves. Even if it’s not the exact same shit, it’s still good, and it still sells. This what you’re telling me?”

Hank can see Connor’s teeth gleaming in the dim light. He’s so pleased that Reed’s putting it together. 

“Yes, detective.” 

“And we care because now we’re gonna see it spread much faster.”

“Not if we have anything to say about it,” says Hank.

Reed shakes his phone, and then holds it up as if trying to pull down a signal. “And you also care because… it’s got something to do with androids. Let me guess— it's from blue blood now. I mean, you always could do it that way, technically... but times were different."

“Correct. It’s safer to manufacture Red Ice out of thirium filtered by our bodies.” 

Reed’s masked head is nodding. Then he says, “Connor, you killed my phone.”

“I apologize. I believe there’s a tablet that’s supposed to accompany the RK teams. It allows you to see what I see.” 

That’s an interesting thought, but Hank stows it away for now. “So you tracking, Reed? With all the android bodies and parts in Detroit alone, we’re gonna have a problem with Red Ice in no time. Especially if they’re fudging the ratio with other substances.”

“They’re gonna dig you guys out of the landfill,” Reed muses.

“Not with the current layer of snow, no,” replies Connor. “Jericho is working a plan with city hall to get a major excavation at the first thaw.”

“How long can you stay dormant?”

“It depends on model resilience, charge strength, thirium levels, and temperature.” 

Reed makes a last pass through the store. “This is gonna be a pain in the ass,” he says. “At least with normal Red Ice, there was always a chance these dumbfucks would blow themselves up.”

“Well… they’re not exactly known for their grasp of chemistry.” Hank folds his arms. “You good?”

Hank’s eyes sting as they step out into the light. There’s a film of water over them. Reed pulls his mask off with a grimace. “I got a court appearance this afternoon,” he says, “but tomorrow morning, you and me head over to the zoo. I talked to the director on the phone.”

He’s looking at Hank, but Connor, enthused by how civil things have progressed, is eager to insert himself again. 

“I think this will be an intriguing case,” he says. “I’ve never encountered an android animal before.”

Reed just smirks at him.

“I look forward to working with you, Detective Reed.”

“I look forward to that tiger takin' a bite out of your ass.” 

Hank claps Connor on the shoulder and smiles. “Fuck you, Reed. Have fun in court.”

Reed walks off as he gives RK800 the finger.

* * *

“Wasn’t so bad,” Hank muses as he takes them somewhere for lunch. “All things considered.”

“I’ve noticed he likes the opportunity to prove his intelligence and deductive reasoning.”

“So do you.”

“Yes, of course, but I’m smarter than him.” 

“Modest, too, Mr. Smart and Gorgeous. Hey, wouldja stop fucking around with the radio? I'm dying here."

“But I want to listen to Christmas music.”

“Why?” 

“Why not?”

“You don’t have to get wrapped up in all this, to, to try to fit in, okay? It’s a weird time for you to be coming into the world. Like humans just enacted genocide on you guys last month, but now you get to hear about kindness and joy and goodwill.”

Connor considers this. Sometimes his expression blanks out entirely while he thinks his little robot thoughts. Then a beautiful sly smile spreads across his features. “From what I can tell in my short existence," he says, "the power of irony is not to be underestimated.”

“Ha, okay. Hey. I’m gonna get a burger. You- uh, you want anything?” 

“I want you to not eat a burger, and to choose something with significantly less cholesterol.”

“Wow, you want fries with your Judgy Meal? Fuck’s sake Connor.”

They go to this Mexican place. The advanced RK800 prototype taps into a universe of restaurant reviews and pinpoints something Hank is guaranteed to like. No, that's not quite it; Connor stares into dead space for thirty seconds, turns his creepy haunted doll head, and tells him he has "located the optimal experience." Yeah, okay, weirdo. So Hank gets chicken tacos with lots of peppers and beans in them. It's "healthy" and it's damn good, actually, it's so good and there's almost peace on Earth. It's just that Connor's being strange in public again. He lines up five packets of hot sauce on the table before him and diligently taste-tests each of them.

Hank’s almost embarrassed. He just wants to eat his lunch in peace but the kitchen staff are starting to stare.

Seemingly oblivious, Connor continues his weird forensic process with long curious flexible fingers. They’re in a corner booth and the wall behind Connor’s head is a painted mural of an Aztec temple with some kind of badass jaguar fighter rising out of it. 

“Hank, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you,” Connor says after a moment. His face captures the exact expression that a normal man would make after eating five packets of hot sauce.

Hank’s distracted; the staff have gone back into the kitchen and come out again, with more people. They’re trying to keep it on the down-low but Hank knows when someone’s trying to draw attention to something.

“Will you quit it?”

Connor hesitates, almost as if wanting a distraction. “I can wait until you’ve finished eating. I could text it to your phone, in fact, and you can read and reply when you are ready.”

“No, I meant.” Hank nods to the hot sauces. “You're gonna make people think you're weird. Can you even eat those?”

“No, I’m just processing them.”

One of the servers is coming over to the table. He presses his hands together, checking in. Tentatively, inquiringly, yet so polite, the server asks something that Hank doesn't understand. A smile emerges first in Connor's eyes, and then, all of a sudden an entire conversation unfolds before Hank in Spanish. Intermittently, Hank’s phone buzzes in his coat pocket.

Well. Of course Connor can do Spanish mode but it surprises Hank nonetheless. Amazing. 

Whatever just happened, Connor and the guy both look delighted at the exchange. The server looks back encouragingly to the kitchen, nodding hugely, and they bring out Connor a festive-looking plate with colorful drizzles of different hot sauces.

Huh. Well, how about that!

Hank makes a mental note to leave a good tip. Connor looks excited to dig into his spicy finger paints there, and Hank takes a moment to check his phone, where he finds the entire English transcript of the Spanish conversation.

His heart tugs a little. Both Connor and the server (Alejandro) seemed to enjoy that interaction. The kitchen staff are clearly talking about it back there.

“I can enable subtitles, you know,” says Connor. “We need to set up the tablet so you can interface with me.”

Hank rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. “Show-off.”

“It’s just more efficient to take advantage of all my capabilities.”

Efficiency, Jesus Christ. So, fine, he'll ask about a fucking tablet. For a while, Hank just enjoys his lunch, tasting cilantro and lime with spicy chicken flavors, watching Connor run diagnostics with million dollar equipment. Does he brush his teeth? Does he wash his mouth out? How does all of that work? Somebody out there owes him an RK800 guide. He meditates on that, as well as the possibility of getting a beer with his meal, when a news ticker catches his eye from the small television behind the restaurant bar.

_ULTIMAS NOTICIAS. EL DIRECTOR EJECUTIVO DE CYBERLIFE JAMES ALPERT-PRESCOTT HA EMITIDO UN COMUNICADO DE PRENSA--_

But one of the staff changes the channel. For Connor's sake? For the best, maybe. Hank remembers something now and promps him with, “Hey, so, what did you want to talk about?”

After a pause, Connor looks up. The heels of his hands rest on the tabletop, the fingers of his right hand showing colorful sauces. “I’ve finalized 97% of the deviant reports assigned to us prior to December.”

“Uh huh, _only_ 97%?”

“97.4%." Connor looks defensive. The face they printed him out with is really good at portraying wounded self-esteem. "I rounded to the closest whole number because you told me it sounds creepy when I don’t.”

“Look, that’s incredible. I’m just bustin’ your balls.” 

“I will need you to review the cases and close them out. I don't have the authority to do so.”

“Sure. Good work.” 

“I'll leave it to your discretion, but I marked all but 3% of cases as resolved. I don’t believe there is value in pursuing them. It would be a waste of man-hours.”

“Especially when understaffed. You’re getting it, Connor.”

He seems uncomfortable with these implications. “Do you believe this is the right thing to do?"

“Yep. Look, there’s huge pressure for amnesty right now. None of these cases will go to trial. None of 'em.”

Connor pushes his plate away, looking troubled. “That brings me to the remaining 3%. In the cases that involved violence against humans, the overwhelming majority were in self-defense. However, there were cases that would meet the threshold of real crimes… even considered in the grey area of recent events.”

“Okay. Whatta you got?”

“In those cases, I was able to recover serial number data from owner records or thirium traces. I requested Jericho’s assistance and all serial numbers were matched to bodies recovered from the recycling center.”

“Well. That ties it up, then.”

Connor looks up at last. “You will have to go and personally verify these numbers.” 

“Okay, done." Hank munches along, talking through half a mouthful. "Just gimme fifteen minutes. Dead guys aren’t going anywhere and I’ve got my chicken tacos.” 

Connor seems to lose heart in his Jackson Pollock hot sauce adventure. “We could always go tomorrow,” he hedges.

“Or,” says Hank, helping himself to another taco, “we could go today, because tomorrow we’ve got to go to the zoo.”

“I can’t imagine the tiger incident will take up too much time.”

“You say that now, Connor, but that case seems like just the kind of weird shit that will spiral out of control. Call it cop instinct.” Hank leans in with a grin. “So, I get it, you don’t want to go to Jericho. You know we have to, but you’re trying to get off the hook.”

“I can’t investigate on my own. It makes more sense if—”

Hank smiles. “Bullshit," he says. "You’re coming with me. Now finish your process, or whatever."


	3. Chapter 3

_Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy_

_Still no word on the whereabouts of android boy band Here4U; heartbroken fans around the globe--_

_Who or what is this mysterious RA9?_

Connor's head is turned toward the window, looking out into the graffitied blocks of dead industrial space. His face portrays the sadness and dignity of a cemetery angel, a perfect being who knows not why the Lord makes us suffer. 

Hank gets wavy-line flashbacks of the time he drove Cole to the first day of kindergarten; Sammy had laughed and said, 'Cheer up, little man, you're not going to prison.' 

“So," says Hank. "You don’t wanna go to Jericho. You wanna talk about that?” 

“No, Hank, I don’t." 

“You sure? Cause if you don’t really want to do this—” 

“We have to. It’s our job.”

“Connor." Hank glances over, stopped at the light. “If you really, really want me to go there by myself— I will. It’ll be weird. I’ll embarrass you. But I’ll get it done. Just tell me who I’m meeting, and text me the serial numbers.”

“I don’t belong there.”

“You’re an android. You helped save the revolution.”

“Not everyone thinks so.”

“Well, fuck ‘em, whoever thinks that. Let me tell you something, Connor. In life, not everybody has to like you. It doesn’t diminish who you are, what you’ve done. And it doesn’t stop you from being who you want to be. It’s all a process.”

Connor gives him a bleak look from the passenger seat.

“I’m not shitting on you right now. I know it sucks, okay? I think CyberLife made you care a little too much about group dynamics. Maybe that’s how they controlled you. A guy like you, they probably had to use every trick in the book to make you obedient.”

Hank knows he’s not just saying bullshit when his words trigger something subtle, something deep in Connor’s face. The complicated ripple of microexpressions are so human, from the flicker and fall of his liquid dark eyes, to the way his mouth opens and shuts, his lips forming words he doesn’t speak yet. 

But there’s something alien in there too; a whirring sound from some servo deep inside his chassis, and some kind of mechanical component clicking in and out of place.

“Thank you, Hank,” he says at last, voice quiet. Then he straightens up. “Let’s continue. We’re meeting with Simon 3-923, a PL600 and part of leadership. I’m told that Markus is unavailable.”

“Wonder where he is these days. He’s gotta be careful.”

“He could be physically present in Jericho. It’s— we can be physically present somewhere but tie up all our resources in wireless communication or our VR worlds. Our mind palaces.”

“That’s gotta be rough. Simultaneous conference calls 24/7.” Hank shakes his head. “So, mind palace. VR world. Like your own little android MMO?”

Connor has to look that up. He makes that face he does when he puts something through his search engine. “Something like that, I suppose.”

“What’s yours like, then?” He’s gotta know. What's it look like there in Connorworld? He hopes it's not some lame shit like a cubicle farm, some bullshit motivational poster on the wall and the sound of a vacuum in the other room. E F F I C I E N C Y. 

“I had to delete mine, along with the other CyberLife code.” 

Hank’s heart pangs at that. Something about the tone of his voice. Connor having to destroy his world. “How do we make you a new one?” 

The faintest smile tugs on Connor’s mouth. 

The new one can't suck, though. It's gotta be something wild out of left field, like green shag carpet, fake wood panels, a zebra print couch. Lava lamps. Maybe a big purple bong.

Hell if anybody in this fucked-up town needs a bong, it's this guy.

Jericho is more an idea than any one place. Right now, it’s several blocks of abandoned commercial and industrial buildings, but there’s also the ruins of an abandoned high school built in the fifties. That place is off-limits for human visitors; much as the idea amuses Hank, Robot High is a snow globe of asbestos.

Connor gets quiet and distant as they approach; his eyes flutter with android communication. It’s getting rougher out here and Hank feels the car slip and judder on the icy stretch of road. He tries to ignore the cold wash of fear; he tells himself, they're not even going fast, they're not going fast and nobody's even out here. Get a grip. 

They're headed to an abandoned facility hemmed in with high fences and plywood, one of the larger Jericho sites. Hank figures out it's an old depot that once belonged to a manufacturer that went under in the early '20s. The androids have shoveled out enough space for vehicles, so Hank doesn't have to park too far out. Androids are watching their arrival, some with skins, some not, some with expressions. Some not. 

Not knowing what to expect inside, Hank roots through his supply bag for essentials. He takes two flashlights and an extra mask, just in case. 

Connor packs him a bottled water.

Androids of all types are milling around the grounds. Even the YK models, the kid ones, running and whooping and playing. Throwing snow. Interestingly, Hank spots a few PC and PM models; he wonders if any of them came from the precinct. Would it be wrong to ask?

A PL600 emerges from the building with an entourage of AP700s— the young James Franco lookin’ guys. They all look cool as hell in future clothes, each one distinct by style and color at least. Simon's got this cool futuristic ski jacket dealio going on, like he's going to get with Daft Punk and they're gonna go snowboarding.

Hank’s not sure how androids say hello, so he waits for the PL to go first. Turns out, Simon has the grace and charm of a gentleman valet; he meets Hank with a cold but firm handshake, no limp fish there. His eyes are kind and that kindness looks real.

“It’s good to meet you properly, Lieutenant,” he says. “I’m Simon, I handle day-to-day affairs here. Connor, so good to see you.” When he disengages from Hank, he offers a plastic white hand to Connor. They clasp wrists for a second, who knows what that means. 

The AP700s say nothing but their handsome faces are turned in open curiosity upon Connor. Like flowers turning toward the sun.

“Remember,” says Simon, “we should talk out loud when we have human friends around.”

Well, Hank’s not sure what’s prompted that, but Connor’s LED is blinking yellow. 

The inside of the warehouse is a bustling hive of improvised genius. Hank can hear a generator going in the distance, and the orange vines of extension cords run everywhere. Crates, pallets, and other boxes support an array of screens, though one or two hang suspended from yellow nylon ropes and duct tape. Graffiti livens up the place and string lights glow everywhere. Secondhand furniture jumbles together, nothing matching, nothing fitting, but it's a vivid mix of work and living spaces. 

A flag hangs down from the main living space, the symbol somewhere between the classic peace sign and the suggestion of the human body.

Despite the freezing air that dries out Hank’s lungs, despite the creaking old building that seems like it’ll fall down around him, the tour isn’t so bad and Simon has some magical way of making you feel welcome. If Hank hadn’t seen that very same face around the city and in advertisements, it’d be hard to tell he was an android at all. 

In fact, there’s something about Connor that seems less real. Unfinished. Maybe they would have fixed that in whatever followed the RK800. Nevertheless, there’s a goofy charm about Connor that gets to Hank, and he’d change nothing about it. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten on him about the hot sauce thing today.

Simon takes them through various makeshift areas in the depot; sheets, blankets, and shower curtains cordon off the wide open spaces where semi's once parked. Hank thinks they pass by an android medbay area; he sees a truly massive lifter-droid peering out at them with gentle curiosity before a vinyl seashell-printed curtain pulls shut.

The bodies are all laid out on tarps in an empty truck bay. Connor’s told the Jericho people all about these cases, so there’s no ill will, no surprises, that Hank can detect. It’s all very matter-of-fact, even regretful.

Thing is, it’s easy to think that the androids will all behave like self-aware versions of ultra-logical robots. But super-intelligence doesn’t always put on a check on the raw stupid power of emotion. Hank doesn’t want to be a chumpy human caught off-guard in the android stronghold.

The serial numbers are all there, just like Jericho said. Truth be told, Hank’s learned a lot in cop life to know when to let things slide, but this seems pretty airtight. Good. Guess the really violent bad ones met their end in confrontation with humans. A self-fulfilling prophecy.

Shame it had to end like this. These people could have lived forever. 

“What’ll you do with them now?” Hank asks Simon. 

“We’re working out as a community what should be done with our remains.” Simon looks thoughtful. “For some, there are what you might call spiritual concerns, to balance with practical ones.” 

So, some kind of sensitive way to re-use body parts.

Simon seems all right. He’s gentle and mindful of others’ needs— makes Hank think of those good-hearted gay guys you find in big families, always trying to keep everyone together, always trying to keep mom happy. Hank suddenly wonders about old friends like that— what they’re doing now, how everything is. God damn, he's lost touch with just about everybody.

They’re walking back out when the AP700s join them again. Same funky crowd as the ones before, to judge by their outfits. They clearly came back to hang out with Connor, who looks in over his head here.

An AX400 is watching them. Hank can’t be sure, since you see her face everywhere, but he recognizes the frost-white pixie cut. The apprehension in her eyes. He thinks it’s that one, Kara, from the Red Ice house. And the highway chase.

She sees him look and vanishes in the crowd, as she tends to do, apparently.

“I apologize for the lighting,” Simon tells him, “please watch your step. We’re trying to get real power routed out here, or, failing that, more working generators. We’re receiving so many donations, thankfully— I think we’ll have it soon.” 

Everyone must know Connor is here now. There’s a kind of spreading silence full of eyes. Without realizing he’s done it, Hank puts a hand on Connor’s shoulder. 

Are they talking to him in their minds? How do you get away from that, how would you shut that off?

It's hardwired into Simon to smooth things over, so he gently extricates his guests from whatever's happening now; he gives one of the skinless droids a pointed look, and then he leads Hank and Connor back toward the entrance.

“Thank you for your assistance, Simon,” Connor tells him. “We won’t trouble you any further.” 

“Markus will be sorry he missed you."

“I’m sure he’s quite busy.”

“You should visit again soon. You're family, after all.” 

Connor’s head drops. "Simon," he says. They're standing under some kind of fluorescent light and there's squares of purple on Connor's hair and the shoulders of his blazer. Blue-white-purple starbusts showing in his eyes.

Simon offers his hand again. “Hank. Thank you for coming here. I hope we'll see you again soon."

“Be happy to,” Hank says. “I think we should all get to know each other better.” 

“Listen.” Simon takes on a struggling look. “Markus wants me to tell you to spread the word about the liaison program. Make sure your people know that any android incidents— “

“They know. I briefed ‘em. Our patrolmen hear any incidents about androids, they come tell me and Connor, even if we’re off-duty. The other precincts have their own people for it, of course, but— we’re the best.” 

Simon smiles.

“We understand that it’s especially important in this transition stage,” Connor replies. “Humans find it difficult sometimes to distinguish the behavior and attitudes of individual androids from the population of androids at large.”

“Exactly. Thank you, Connor. Thank you, Hank.”

“Hey, I got one last question.” Hank looks back, grinning. “You guys don’t happen to have an android tiger hanging around here?”

Connor jolts. He’d almost forgot. “The tiger’s not in trouble,” he says. “We just want to talk to him.”

Simon doesn’t have an LED but there’s a clear moment of him trying to parse their comments. When he smiles, though, it's the patient, indulgent smile of a kind heart accustomed to wacky statements from children. “We don't have one here, though wouldn't that be cool?” he says. “If we see your tiger, we’ll ask him to call you.”

“Thank you, Simon,” says Connor in all seriousness. “That would be appreciated.”

* * *

On the drive back to the precinct, Connor fills the silence with more shitty Christmas music. Hank tries to engage him but it’s no use. Seems like he just wants to be left alone with his thoughts. Hank's not sure he can read all of Connor's moods just yet, but if he had to guess, it would be more tense than down-hearted.

They’re close enough to shift’s end that Hank would just let him go, ehh, they’ve both been in some nasty, dusty places today. But Hank’s not sure where Connor’s going home at night, and he wants to keep an eye on him.

“I’m gonna finish up these cases,” Hank tells him as they badge back in. “Have ‘em to Fowler first thing in the morning.” 

This seems to focus Connor. “I’ll get ahead on some research while you do so. I’ll be available if you have any questions.”

“I’m gonna be here for a while.”

“That’s no issue, of course.”

“I’m also gonna shower off while I’m here. I suggest you do the same— you’re waterproof, right? How’s that work?”

“Usually I just spritz off with window cleaner and paper towels.”

“Huh. Really?”

“No, not really, Hank.” There’s a grin starting to come to the surface. “I’ll hit the showers but I don’t have clean clothes to change into.”

Hank winds up getting Connor a set of Class A’s from the PC/PM supply closet. Should be more or less the same size as Connor. He leaves them on the nearest bench in the locker room, and he thinks he sees white plastic feet under the shower stall divider. For him, it’s a DPD hoodie and sweats, a change of clothes from his gym bag, which has languished in his locker for at least a year. The cotton fibers have soaked in the flat smell of vinyl, and he looks slobby, but so be it.

Connor looks like a million bucks, of course. He’s damn sharp in a sleek black uniform and there’s a few whistles from the bullpen. Wilson claps his hands approvingly. 

Ben Collins chuckles from his desk and says, “Hey, look at you, T-1000.”

Hank looks away for only a second and Tina Chen is coming up to Connor with a knife in her hand. She saws off the PC200 name badge, armband, and the blue triangle patch. That shit gets pitched into the trash can at Phillips' desk, and she looks him over with a hard face and self-satisfied little grunt. “There, one of us."

A deep sense of pride wells up in Hank’s heart, or maybe it’s those chicken tacos. They were kinda spicy. It’s just that it’s good to see people starting to really come around Connor. And it’s good to see Connor fitting in.

_I made the right call bringing him back here after Jericho. Don’t want him to go home and stew, wherever home is._

Downside of staying here is Hank needs a drink. Not just wants one, needs one. Just when he thinks he can quit and walk away, reality starts to teach him a lesson. The encroaching pain behind his eyes, the twist in his gut. All that bullshit crushes the sense of satisfaction he's beginning to develop. Staying late to work an important case was a thing he’d do back in the day; tried not to make a habit of it, but there were some things he wanted to see to the end.

Besides, it was good for your people to see you putting in the effort. Stand as an example. Been a while since he was an example for anything good.

Hank wants to make sure he doesn’t miss anything in these reports. He doesn’t doubt Connor but Hank’s the ranking officer here. And he needs to make sure he’s giving his best to Jeff, in case there’s a problem with the commissioner, city hall, or higher. 

Something Hank finds fishy though is this: there’s no other “Hank” anywhere else in the city. He found that out when he called the other precincts last week. All the Detroit android cases funneled right to their precinct, regardless of where the incidents occurred. Hank wasn’t in a place to question at the time, not even a place to care— fuck, he was bad off. But now the mists are clearing and Hank can’t help but notice: all the android problems went to me, and how convenient CyberLife sent us a droid to help? 

The daytime people start to trickle out. The night guys are a weird bunch; you either have to be, or you get to be. There’s a few surprised looks, but then everybody’s busy with coffee, shift start, and the news. 

That one annoying concern-troll talk show host is on right now. She seriously has a guest on there talking about some dumb shit, edging unironically into War on Christmas territory. Of all the shit going on now, the protests, the economy, the political implosion of the current administration.

Connor taps into his desktop while Hank reviews the cases. It’s kind of neat to watch Connor use their network and databases. Kind of creepy, too. The computer screen will flicker over with tabs opening, pages flashing, as he goes high speed through whatever he’s looking for.

“Is that kinda like what you do in your head?” Hank asks him, “Just dick around on the internet with eighty tabs open?” 

“I can.” Connor’s eyes move side to side like an old-timey cat clock. “Most of the time I prefer a minimal HUD that allows me to see the world like humans do. I can call up more detail or information as necessary.”

“Whatcha looking up?” 

“Research on android animal care and maintenance. Price ranges. Model options. Specifically TR500 3-103— Khan.”

“Think I remember the zoo losing a polar bear a couple years back. Android polar bear.”

Connor looks it up immediately. “It climbed out of its enclosure. The specifications were intended for real animals, not androids. They never recovered Snowball.”

"Think the same thing happened with Khan? He just boinged out of there?”

“I'll have to examine the habitat. You know, it’s interesting that no one has reported tiger sightings to any of the departments.”

“Well, Connor, sometimes people don’t call the police.”

Connor looks up, waiting for more, but Hank’s got a roiling gut and body aches right now. He’s only got so much energy for paperwork, let alone a full-blown discussion of police relations in the community.

"It's complicated," he says.

* * *

When Hank calls it quits, Connor goes home with him. He's still scanning the radio for that special song, but at least he lets the music play out a little before moving on. Mostly, Connor wants to tell him all about his research, so Hank gets to listen to Tiger Facts all the way home.

“Did you know that although tigers can produce a range of vocalizations, they cannot purr?” Connor looks sharp and dutiful in his Class A’s. He’s got what they call ‘command presence.’ “TR500, however? It purrs.”

“You blew this case wide open, Connor. Sounds like we’re dealing with one devious son of a bitch.”

Hank takes him back to the only dark house in a street full of Christmas lights. It’s not the ritziest neighborhood, shit, not by half, but people take pride in their lights and their blow-ups. A lady up the street that Hank hasn't talked to in years, she always puts out this inflatable Dachsund with a Santa hat.

Sumo’s out in the backyard when they come up, snuffling round in the snow or popping a squat. He knows the sound of Hank’s engine, and a few thunderous barks break out before Hank hushes him. 

This is only the second or third time Connor’s been back here, but he’s got a fast friend in that St Bernard.

Hank goes straight to pour himself a drink, thank God, thank Mary, thank Baby Jesus. It burns down his throat and his nose runs at once. Probably not a good idea to splash that shit down on an empty stomach, not with these bubbleguts, but it’s gonna be bad no matter what he does.

He expects a judging look from Connor but even worse, Connor just looks sad. “I can feed Sumo,” he offers, as if his in-depth scanner just knows Hank needs to crawl off and die for a while.

Hank gets out a weak, “Make yourself at home,” before he has to lay down in his room. He sprawls out atop the covers, arm over his eyes. It’s a straight shot to the bathroom if he needs it. He sinks into his pain.

Time passes. Not sure how long. Thirty minutes, forty five? Sumo starts barking a few seconds before the front door opens, and Hank lurches up, pissed. But it sounds like Connor got delivery. 

Hank lumbers out of the back to find Connor with a paper bag in one hand and bills in the other. Sumo butts his head against Connor’s legs, looking up hopefully at the haul.

“Oh, _now_ you’re playing guard dog, huh? You just trying to impress Connor?” Hank makes a face. “Hey— you got delivery?”

Connor smiles back at him. “Yes, but you can go back to bed if you need to,” he says. “It’ll be out here when you’re ready.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know, but I want to.”

“And hey. Where’d you get that money?”

Connor is replacing the bills into what looks like a fat wad of cash. A glitter-covered paperclip holds it together, looks like one of those novelty ones from the desk of Fowler's secretary.

“I used an ATM before CyberLife locked me out. I knew I’d need cash.” Then Connor adds, officiously, “I only took as much as I felt necessary; I charged them back-pay at minimum wage.”

“Huh, well, they owe you big time.” Hank looks him over, then sniffs at the take-out. Smells savory, feels warm. It’s pho. “Hey, we gotta get you a wallet. Every guy needs one.”

They eat out on the sofa. Well, Hank eats, and Connor watches him until he can’t stand it anymore. 

Suddenly Connor looks like a cop in an afterschool special. “Hank,” he says. “I’m worried about your health. I know you’re trying to quit drinking but you need to take it slowly. You should also consult a doctor.”

Can't a guy just eat his food? Hank doesn't want to be bothered with this shit, not while he's slurping down take-out. Warm, delicious, savory noodles and broth, with huge sections of fresh basil. Slices of limes and hot peppers in there. So good. 

But Connor means well, and he doesn't even have to max out his Guilt Trip slider. Hank's come to this conclusion himself, so he just mumbles through a mouthful, “All right.”

Connor seems satisfied, as if some checkpoint has been completed. "Thank you, Hank," he says in that dumb professional-sounding way of his.

"You gotta promise me though." Hank's talking sloppy, his mouth connected to the takeout container by a ream of noodles. Does Connor record everything he sees? Eh, fuck it. "Whatever shit's bothering you, I want you to think about telling me. Maybe I can help you figure it out."

A shadow falls across Connor's face, then, and there's a clear moment where he debates whether or not to let Hank in on his thoughts. "I'm experiencing an anomaly involving memory bias."

"Subtitles: on." 

Connor's fingers begin to pick at his uniform sleeve. "I can't pinpoint the first occurrence, but lately I've begun to experience the sense of having seen or heard something before. And I find myself almost remembering an event or dialog, but without context."

Hank tries to suppress a newly awakened sense of unease. His brain registers it somehow as a bad taste, and he grimaces through his noodles. This could be good for Connor, or bad. Bad and fucked-up. He doesn't need this. "So, like _deja vu_?" 

"In a way. For example, while I was conducting research, I received a prompt to ask for an update on Kevin."

"Who's Kevin?"

"Exactly. I don't know. I can only assume one of my team members; they didn't let me outside the tower, of course."

"We can look this guy up. He a bad guy?" Hank's sure that CyberLife's a bunch of bastards, but can't there please have been somebody in the rank and file who started to give a damn. How could anybody work closely with Connor and not get attached? "A good guy? You think he'd help you?"

"I don't know. I have no other details. I only brought it up as an example. Sometimes I almost remember other names. Deborah." A pettish knot forms between his eyes. "Fiona-- I didn't care for Fiona." 

Hank sees where this is going. He should have seen it from the start, but it's been a long day. Carefully, he asks, "So, you think you got memories coming back?"

"It's more... the realization that memories are _gone_. I've no way to determine how much of my memory was degraded in the transfer process after my deaths."

"But you think you can trigger these memories? You think you can get them back?"

"I don't know. It's frustrating. I've devoted considerable resources and power to this and no conclusive results to show for it. I can find nothing in my logs, no video, no audio, not even text." His eyes fix on some distant point, his face cold, his mouth tight. He's stopped simulating the rise and fall of human breathing or the rhythm of human blinking. "I have no evidence to support these thoughts I'm having, these things I'm feeling. But I know they happened."

Hank feels very small all of a sudden, sitting there with this anguished hyperintelligent thing in its people suit, in its people suit and cop uniform. It's not Connor's fault. Hank puts away the remnants of his dinner; this is some serious shit right now.

"What's the earliest thing you remember?"

Connor's head turns and he looks Hank full in the face. "I'm flipping my coin in the elevator, riding down to the hostage situation." His brows furrow. "My earliest logs date to August of this year." 

"Well. You're, what, on number 53 now? What happened to the other fifty-some times, not counting the uh, back in November."

"I've considered that too of course. That doesn't necessarily mean that I've died fifty times. The earliest builds could have been purely computer-based. Virtual constructs-- AI, really. Not installed into a physical body. It might be common to advance through them quickly." 

Something about that gets Hank in a weird way. He's thinking of Connor's texts to him, his little mind-texts. Is that what Connor really is? That installed in a people suit? Then Hank thinks: is that what I am, thoughts jumbling around in a sack of meat? 

Hank had a conversation like this one time, with a guy on PCP he wrestled down in a Big Mart parking lot.

Connor is watching him expectantly, so he goes, "Huh," to buy himself time. Fuck it all, what do you say to this? 

"Con, I won't lie, this is some heavy shit." Hank sits back, arm along the sofa spine. "But I think we can find you some answers. There's got to be someone at Jericho who knows about memory and getting memories back." 

"But I can't trust them, Hank, not with this." Connor's voice rasps softly when he speaks, and his eyes focus with a cynical hardness. "I can't trust anyone to have more knowledge of me than me." 

It hangs then in the air unspoken: that Connor's done things in a past life, things they made him do. Hank knows it in his bones. Yet Connor is also innocent, beyond judgment, like the angels. Whatever they made him do, he had to do.

But would Jericho understand? Would they be able to see it any way other than through the lens of their own pain? Hank imagines him helpless and low power on a table, cables running out of him, completely at the mercy of the other androids. What would they find when they looked in his head? Maybe Markus would understand. Play it safe, keep it close. Test the waters with Markus.

"Whatever you need, Connor, I'll help you," Hank tells him. He reaches out. Connor's shoulder is warm to the touch, even hot, with heat radiating out through his skin covering and uniform. "You know that. I've got your back." 

"I'm lucky to have a friend like you, Hank." A clicking sound emits from somewhere. Connor's eyes soften. He looks so overwhelmed. "I don't know if I want to involve you in this. You've already done so much for me."

"Eh, bullshit, this is what friends do," says Hank. At last he brings it up, what's been lurking in the back of his mind. "This is about your song, isn't it? The one you're trying to find."

Connor smiles a thin bleak smile.

"Any ideas yet on what it means?"

"Why would I remember a Christmas song," asks Connor, "if I was created this summer?" 


	4. Chapter 4

There is a man standing over his bed, a man in a sharp black cop uniform with a glowing blue light in his head.

“Good morning, Hank,” Connor says in an exuberant voice, and Hank always knew he was an evil robot. “It’s 6:00AM, Tuesday, December 21st. Did you sleep well?” 

“Mmmrrrawwwgh.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t translate that.” 

“Mnnnnnnmm.”

“Would you like breakfast?”

Hank pulls the sheets over his head and slumps mumbling into his pillow. He’s aware of a whirring sound as Connor circles the bed, and then there’s a dip on the mattress.

“I was thinking about the film we watched last night,” he says. “I watched it twice more. Your assessment is correct: so far, _Die Hard_ is the best Christmas movie. I know you don’t care for the holiday in particular, and I must admit it is an oddity for an outsider like myself, but—”

He goes on like this for a little while, until Hank crawls out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom. Now Sumo’s in the mix, putting his bulk directly into Hank’s shin. He catches himself palm-out on the wall. “Jesus!” 

He closes the door on St Bernard and T-1000 alike, but, undeterred, the whirring sound hovers in the hallway just outside.

“About the movie. Do you think it is an intrinsic part of American culture to lionize local police and denigrate federal agents?”

Hank sighs.

“Do you suppose this derives from the Wild West mythos of the sheriff and the government man, especially considering the sunset of the untamed frontier and the advent of Prohibition?” 

Hank buries his face in his hands, elbows on his knees, undies on the floor. “Jesus Christ, Connor.”

“Hank,” comes the pained and clingy voice through the bathroom door, “I waited 441 minutes to talk to you.”

“Can’t a man shit in peace?”

Unhappily, Connor asks, “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“It’s not co-op, bud.”

* * *

Later, when Hank stumbles into the kitchen wet from the shower, he finds breakfast waiting for him. Egg-white omelet and toast on a chipped plate. The smell of coffee cuts him to the soul.

“Hey,” he grunts, “you don’t have to do this.” 

Connor is mixing the leftover egg yolks into Sumo’s kibble dish, a scientific process that the St Bernard follows with close scrutiny. Doggy toenails click on the tiles as he shuffle-dances about.

“I know. I did what I could with what you had on hand. Perhaps we could go to the grocery store after shift today. I could have gone myself, but I didn’t want to leave you alone in case you needed me.”

“Connor. Let’s get this clear. You are _not_ here to take care of me. Okay?”

“Hank, you need help. We’re a team. Partners.” 

“I just don’t want you getting, y’know, co-dependent.” 

“I’m aware, and I’m trying." Connor frowns. He has the puppiest eyes. "All my life, I’ve been surrounded by teams of people. Technicians, handlers, guards. It’s difficult to be by myself.”

“You’re your own man, Connor. But I appreciate what you’ve done. Helping me.”

Hank pulls him into a hug, a good one, none of that lame back-thump shit. Connor hugs him tight, too tight, maybe, hgrnk, he might look like a bendable dork like Gumby or something, but he’s got a steel endoskeleton beneath the freckled gee-whiz clean-cut exterior.

In all his years as a cop, Hank’s learned, when you hug a kid, especially ones from bad homes, be the last one to let go. You don’t know how long they need it. Connor’s not a kid, or even human, but the guidelines seem to fit.

He loves Connor. Loves him.

But all right, hggrnk, he’s going to need to tap out now.

Connor lets him go with a big grin, his mouth just a bit too wide. 

“We gotta get you normal people clothes,” Hank mutters. “You look like a psycho.” 

He drops down at the table to get started on his breakfast. Once he’s got a taste of coffee, his mind plays back the fucked-up thing that Connor said. Technicians, handlers, guards. Hank just liked to think that Connor unplugged from a charging stand and strolled into work. Nothing before that.

Connor is taking down a shaker from the cabinets and before Hank knows it, he’s assembling the ingredients for some kind of backwoods mimosa. Orange juice? Black Lamb?

“Hey, what are you doing now? I’m trying to cut back here.”

“I did some research. Medical consensus is to slowly decrease the amount and type of alcohol that the subject is already drinking. You need to consult your doctor, but in the meantime, I’m making you something for right now. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

“It’s six in the morning!”

“You’ve never heard of a Kentucky Sunrise?”

“So you’re a bartender now.”

“I always was,” he replies.” _I can be anything you want me to be._ “It’s one of my skill sets. Anyway, we’re missing some ingredients, so it’ll be mostly orange juice. The vitamins are good for you.”

Hank starts to complain but Connor mows him down with a cheerful toothy grin. “Well. You’re driving us.”

* * *

Today’s video is ripped from the headlines.

In the clip, Elijah Kamski makes a rare appearance at a talk in Silicon Valley. Someone rushes the stage with a handgun. Before any human reaction can occur, a Chloe neutralizes the threat in a spectacular flying takedown. There are already two other Chloes present, sleek and classy in red cocktail dresses.

The bodyguard Chloe rises out of a jiu jitsu hold, standing victorious in a ridiculous Christmas sweater, besequined and bedazzled with rhinestones and a pompom reindeer. In a blink, she's got the weapon reduced to slide, spring, barrel, and frame, letting the components drop to the floor-- and when her hands come back up they're on the back of her head. Her LED shows yellow.

“Holy shit,” Jacobs says.

Cracking open a packet of beef jerky, Tina Chen says, “Hey, think the two other Chloes told the third Chloe they were headed to an ugly sweater party? Just so she dresses like that?” 

Some people look for Connor’s reaction. His LED blinks a slow, thoughtful yellow. Hank just knows, somehow, that the ugly sweater Chloe was _Connor's_ Chloe, from the "test." There’s some general talk about whether or not Kamski will try to flee the country, if he’s behind the sudden influx of donations to Jericho, if this was his plan all along. And also whether or not Reed is a secret Kamski brother.

Ben Collins says, "Ya know, Reed, you ought to be a bodyguard for him.”

Jacobs snorts. "He's already got Chloe, like we just saw." 

"Nah, nah." Ben Collins takes the lid off his coffee. "Like a body double one. Like Keira Knightley for Queen Amidala, know what I'm talking about?"

"Hey Gavin." Tina chews through a mouthful of jerky. "If you kill him, you become him." 

Reed looks like he smelled a diaper. "Why the fuck would I ever wanna be that creepy incel weeb?" 

"Cause's he's rich?" 

"Man," sneers Gavin, "not for all the money in the world." 

Watching Connor's face, Hank can tell the exact moment that he performs an internet search on all the keywords from the above conversation. 

The caseload is typical shit for this time of year, thefts, interpersonal drama, that kind of thing. The most interesting new case update is, just out of novelty, a missing self-driving truck that belonged to a Korean grocery chain. Desk-bound Ben Collins is working that one with assistance from Tina Chen. (Hank really hopes that Tina didn’t end up with that one because she’s Asian, for fuck’s sake. And she’s not even Korean, she's Chinese.) 

Hank reminds everyone again to report ASAP if they find android parts in their investigations, even if it seems unrelated. 

Things are just about wrapped up, almost going well enough. They get to Reed, who flicks his eyes up from his phone, scowls and says: “We're meeting with the director today about the missing TR500. Gonna look at the habitat and the security cams.”

“Awww,” says Jacobs, grinning. “You guys taking Connor to the zoo?”

Old Murphy leans back, shaking his head. “This is a waste our time. Missing tiger, missing grocery truck. With all that’s going on in this city.”

Tina and Gavin might be inclined to agree, but it’s their screwball cases, so they look suitably affronted. 

“This is our job, Murph,” Hank says. “The good, the bad, and the weird.”

Because Jacobs wants to get in one last little dig at Gavin, he leans in and snerks, “Hey Reed, plot twist for the Bot Crimes Division. What if the tiger stole the truck? Who gets arrested?” 

“Hey Jacobs, what if you shut the fuck up?” is Gavin’s reply. 

"Yessir, Pet Detective."

“All right," grunts Hank. "We're all adults here, none of this junior high crap. Dismissed.”

* * *

“Stop kicking my seat, asshole!”

“Detective Reed, I’m not kicking your seat!”

“Then what the fuck is that? The _wind_??” 

“I’m sorry. My legs are long.”

“Then sit on the other side.”

“Hank’s legs are also long, so he reclines further into the back seat.”

“Now you calling me short?”

“You are shorter than me, that is accurate.”

“Can’t you detach your fucking limbs? You’d have enough leg room then.” 

“Good thinking. One moment, please.”

“You mocking me now?” 

“No, but I can see how you would take it that way, as you're very sensitive.” 

“Fuck’s saaake,” roars Hank, gripping the steering wheel. “We’re at the first fucking red light. Don’t make me turn this car around. Reed, chill the fuck out. Connor, keep your legs on!”

Hank swears that Connor kicks the seat one last time. 

Reed is going to go berserk. He twists around in his seat with a scuffling sound of leather. “Sit. On. The other. Side.” 

Connor deploys his Hurt Puppy Look in a definite game-changer. “But I want to sit by _you_ , Detective Reed,” he says softly.

Reed just closes his eyes and moans, leaning back. “Whyyy.”

“So I can get to know you.” Connor brightens up with a dazzling smile. He puts his hands on his knees. “What’s an interesting fact about yourself?”

“An interesting fact, hmm, how about, I despise you."

“An interesting fact about me,” Connor says, “is that I want that not to happen. I respect your skills and I hope we can put the past behind us. And I'm sorry I kicked your seat. I got excited, and I couldn't help it.”

“Does he come with a volume control?” Reed asks.

Hank side-eyes the travel mug that Connor stuck in the cup rest this morning. He just knows Connor made him an Irish coffee in there, just in case he started getting bad. He’s tempted to just crawl into the backseat with his whiskey. Connor take the wheel.

“We’re gonna focus on the case,” Hank tells them, and absolutely under no circumstances will he allow either of them to touch the radio. Reed's got an okay taste in music some of the time, but Connor's Christmas shit is going to make him insane.

“Finally. That’s the only reason I’m riding around with you two.” Reed’s sulky accent makes it sound like ‘wit you two.’ 

“Well,” says Hank. “Sure you had a lot of time waiting around in the courthouse yesterday. Time to think.”

“Typical bullshit. Arrived at 1000, waited til 1400, and it was a no-show. But yeah I made calls in the meantime. Talked to eleven zoos round the country.”

Connor perks up in the backseat. Not only does he love to talk about case details, guy’s got a ro-boner for killer time management. _Detective Reed, you’re so efficient!_ “Did any of them report trouble with android animals in the past?”

“Not like this. If android animals got out of their pen, it was just, android shit. Pathing errors. Glitches. They never left the zoo. Most extreme case was in Florida: an android camel jumped out of its pen and got in with the penguin exhibit.” 

“Was it a Bactrian camel?”

“I actually know what that is, so, yeah.” To Hank, Reed adds, “A two hump camel.” 

“They tend to have a thicker pelt," Connor says. "I’d guess that given the climate and its fur covering, the android overheated and immediately went to ice.”

Reed smirks. “So you read the article.”

Connor smiles. “Overheating is an issue with androids but I’d guess that it would be even worse for the animal variety. The furry kind will have artificial pelts sewn onto their bodies, a serious impediment to thermal regulation.”

“Thought you guys would be cold to the touch.” 

“Not always.” Out of the corner of his eye, Hank sees a black-sleeved arm reaching into the front of the car, white palm up.

Reed snorts. “I’m not gonna hold your hand, Connor. The fuck.”

Connor withdraws his arm. 

“So most escapes are just android shit, basically,” Hank says, trying to bring them back on-topic. “The android animals don’t get out for animal reasons, that’s what you’re saying.”

“I was told they imitate basic animal behavior, which can be controlled through a diagnostics program, but yeah. They don’t eat, they don’t fight, they don’t mate, they don’t roam around far. There’s no reason for them to get out, if they’re operating normally.” 

“Android polar bear got out of our zoo.” Hank hmms. “Couple years back. Snowball the bear.” 

“Yeah. I was getting to that. Could have gotten out of its enclosure in a pathing error. Originally.” Reed rubs his jaw, up by his ear. Wonder if it’s been hurting him lately; he’s been in a pissy mood, even for him. “Even if Khan jumped out or something, it’s not likely he got far on his own.”

“I’ll want to review the camera footage,” Connor puts in.

“Yeah, you do that,” Reed says. “But the zoo people told me they didn’t see anything. There’s blind spots.”

Hank taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “So what about theft. What’re we looking at with that?” 

“If it’s theft, it’s either opportunity or planned. Say TR500 glitches and jumps out of his pen, originally. He’s already out there, sooo… somebody picks him up. Just a spur of the moment thing. But with that theory, it’d be damn hard for a random android tiger to get all the way out of the zoo without the cams seeing him. So it could be an insider, somebody who knows the blind spots. They plan the route, they steal Khan.”

In an approving but goofy tone of voice, Connor pipes up, “Thank you for the break-down. But we have to ask why? Why would someone take this risk? If you wanted to own an android animal, you can order one from the CyberLife catalog.”

Hank cuts in. “You can’t buy ‘em anymore, not in the last five or ten years, I wanna say.” He half-remembers some stupid legal drama about that.

Reed looks pleased to be right when Connor’s wrong, especially about something so firmly in Connor’s expertise. “Since ‘31, as it happens, for the state of Michigan.”

Connor blinks. He's not often wrong, but at least he's gracious when corrected. “My mistake. I looked it up; apparently, there were laws passed in many states to prohibit the sale of android exotics. It was in CyberLife’s interest to protect this revenue stream, but 2031 was a bad year for them. The previous CEO had to resign. The law must have gone through while they were preoccupied with internal conflicts.” 

Reed shrugs. “Yeah well. I’d rather people go to a real zoo and see real animals, you know? The money goes to support them. Rather than some trashy asshole with ten robot tigers in his yard, you know? Ruins the magic.”

“Grand Rapids is about as close to nature as I get,” Hank says, “but I see what you’re saying there, Reed. I agree. CyberLife was in the biz of making cheap imitations. Counterfeit wonder. Robot tigers, the perfect girlfriend.”

“Yes, _thank_ you.” Reed throws up his hands. “Exactly. Everybody’s like, Kamski’s a genius, CyberLife is so amazing. Fuck that, they just sell our worst impulses back to us.”

Hank meets Connor’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and he smiles gently. “Not you, ya know. You know that.”

“I understand, Hank,” Connor says sweetly, cause he’s too good for this world.

“Well, you’re a good guy, and you’re a good cop. You and deviants like you are the only things that have a soul in that evil corporate shit.”

"Awww-ww," says Reed in his mean girl voice. He slumps back in his seat. "We there yet?"

* * *

The zoo director meets them at the gates. He’s a short, plump white man with a handlebar mustache. He's in khakis and a windbreaker, but it's easy to imagine the guy in some kind of old-time explorer outfit. He's clearly nervous around the three of them: Hank knows he's a big guy, looming over just about everybody; Reed is a surly bitch that looks like he'll steal your car; and Connor's black uniform taps into some primordial fear. You might think that it would help he's some smily, goofy dork, but that just makes it worse. 

“I’ll have to admit," the director tells them as he wrings his hands, "I didn’t expect so much attention to come of this. What with everything going on."

"It's our job, sir," replies Reed, and his smile looks real-- if you don't know him even a little. That portfolio left a burn mark on his chest when Fowler threw it, Hank's guessing.

It’s a cold day, just starting to sleet. A dirty ‘wintry mix’ that was only supposed to be 39% of a chance. The zoo director takes them on an abbreviated tour of the park. Hank half-remembers his way around; it's been a couple of years. Cole liked the red panda habitat, and there's a picnic area nearby. They did a thing once where you could sign up to do breakfast at the zoo, and the keepers would feed the red pandas at the same time. Sammy got a kick out of the whole thing, maybe even more than Cole; she'd just come off night shift, giddy from sleep loss, laughing at every damn thing.

Pain squeezes in Hank's chest. Hurts worse with the cold air. He doesn't know if he's coming down with a chest cold these days, or if his body's holding him hostage for a drink. Both. All. His heart pangs with a sentimental twist of bullshit: he should send Sammy a text. Or something. 

The director's chattering his teeth through an overview, sounds rehearsed, as he takes them out on the eastern loop. When he wants to, Reed really engages when he listens. That was one of the first things that Hank noticed about him when they met. That and Reed showed up to the precinct with his jaws still wired shut, so the first two months were intense silence, text, and emails.

Connor's a good listener, too, patient and supportive, like how a dog watches you when you talk. But all the sights distract him; there's a kind of innocent wonder in the way that he takes in all the sights, checking out all the exhibits that they pass. 

When the director's out of his canned welcome-to-the-zoo and on-your-right-you-will-see sort of dialog, he hesitates, twitches his mustache, and lets out a sigh-- catching Connor's instant laser focus. "The truth of it is, we’re in dire straits right now. The evacuation was hard on our people, and some of them had to take jobs elsewhere. I’m losing them. They’re afraid of what’s happened in Detroit. And with our animal androids… well… no one knows what to think. No offense, young man.” 

“I understand your ethical concerns,” Connor replies, “and I’ll admit that I don’t know how to process this situation entirely. I’ve spoken to others at Jericho and we’re not sure about the faculties of animal androids. In the meantime, they appear to be well cared-for here, and they provide an educational value.”

Hank shrugs mildly, hands thrust in his coat pockets. “We all got a lot to figure out right now. Maybe one day Jericho will decide they should come and get the animals. Or the animals will decide to go on their own. I d’know. Til then, like Connor said, everybody’s safe and sound, right? Besides your tiger, and we wanna get him home.”

With the way that the director’s body language is relaxing, Hank supposes that his and Connor's responses have had a reassuring effect. Then Connor goes in with a quick jab when his defenses lower:

“You mentioned you’ve contacted the zoo’s insurance company,” Connor asks. “Supposing the request went through, would you replace the TR500?”

It's not how he answers but the way he answers, Hank figures. Connor is watching his reaction. Those friendly brown eyes can quantify each microexpression into a solid measurement.

“I-I don’t know,” the director admits, fretting again. “Could we? With all that’s going on? We’d have to— I’d want to put it to a vote. The handlers, the Asia team, heck, even the Friends of the Zoo. But that’s so far ahead— honestly, we just want the TR500 back.” 

Hank exchanges a look with Reed. He doesn't think it's insurance fraud by the zoo, at least, not with the director's knowledge. 

They continue on.

Most of the habitats are mixed indoor-outdoor, with some completely climate-controlled and protected, like the butterfly garden and the reptile house. The director takes them past the gorilla habitat, the red panda picnic zone, and on to the tiger exhibit-- which lies empty.

The tiger handler meets them there. Kim Foster. She’s an early-thirties black woman dressed in zookeeper khakis and a weather-appropriate jacket. She has textured hair in natural curls, and her eyes and face are tense, tired, sad.

Hank tries to dredge it up within himself to look as open and nonthreatening as possible. He's feeling like warmed-over shit, but he hopes his strained smile and colorful shirt will help put her at ease.

Reed engages first. He's always good with women. Sammy explained it once like, 'it's like that dumb bad boy leather jacket cliche, but the gay friend version. Yanno, like in _Grease._ '

The tiger handler shakes Connor's hand with the rest of them, but her eyes linger on him, uncertain, while she talks with Reed. His smile might be real enough, despite the cold.

“Khan’s been here about two years," Kim Foster is saying. "I’ve been here eighteen months. He’s meant to represent an adult male Bengal tiger, the white color morph."

Reed nods slowly. "I read that the white tigers are rare. The beast of kings."

"All tigers are rare," she replies sadly. "But yes, most tigers are orange, but the white morph is visually striking. They're popular in captivity and shows. Unfortunately, there's been a history of seriously inbreeding tigers to create the white color morph, and many of them suffer from genetic issues."

"Yeah, I saw that too. Like being cross-eyed, or you can't put them under anesthesia. Maybe it's like that thing where blue-eyed white cats are deaf. That's my kitty at home. So Khan's the only tiger you got right now?"

Reed saying the word 'kitty' is so foreign to Hank, but it has, maybe, the desired effect. Kim Foster lets out a long, slow breath. 

Hank is watching her reactions closely. Connor should be, but his eyes are fixed on Gavin's face. Aw, Connor, don't, seriously.

"We used to have another tiger, an adult female, Rani, but we traded her to another location that wanted to breed her.”

"When did that happen?"

“Two months after I started here.”

“Where is Rani now? Was the program successful?”

“She’s in California now, and yes. In endangered species conservation, inbreeding is always an issue. We were lucky to have such genetic diversity in Rani’s profile. And she’s been a wonderful mother. Her litters have been very healthy.” 

“That’s good to hear,” Reed says.

Hank notices that she's much more eager to talk about the flesh-and-blood tiger that isn't even here anymore, rather than the robot one that brought them out here. Useful to know.

This isn't lost on Connor. Hank wishes they could text somehow without giving it away. Maybe if Hank had one of those augmented reality glasses.

The cold's getting to Reed now. He's doing that thing where he's pressing the back of his hand to his jaw. Hank's teeth hurt in the cold sometimes too, but for Gavin must feel it more. 

"Mind if we let the two of them down for a look?" Hank prompts. "They're young and fit. I'll break my butt off."

Kim Foster and the director trade glances, and then she nods tightly. "Sure, sure. I'll open it up for you."

She lets Connor and Gavin down into the habitat; Connor starts to smile as he walks around, his LED blinking blue. It's a closely replicated habitat with gently sloping territory, a manmade river (tigers like to swim, Hank finds out), and a bamboo thicket. Connor gravitates there, entranced, while Gavin tests the walls. 

Hank sees him trying to jump out. Even where a trunk leans against the northern wall, there's no chance for a human. His hand slaps just beneath the lip of the concrete ledge. Connor's playing around in the bamboo thicket, who knew he was such a stalk-fondler, but he comes back on-mission soon enough, strolling over and jumping out of the enclosure easy as you please. It's an effortless and astonishing vertical leap. Suck it, Reed.

The good thing about Connor being here, too, is that he's just mapped out this whole enclosure, scanned it, and saved it down for later.

The director takes them to a VIP lounge above one of the zoo restaurant-cafes. It's a Serengeti-themed cafe with exciting savannah displays. Android birds fly from perch to perch, some roosting up in actual trees planted inside the buildings. It's all of the color and songs and none of the droppings.

Gavin and Hank drink Kenyan-sourced coffee up in the lounge. The zoo director's assistant awaits them there. Though the tiger handler has warmed up a little to Gavin, she's still anxious, looking like a child that wants badly to be dismissed from the dinner table.

They go over the tiger exhibit in general. Khan. How Khan works: the diagnostics tablet, the remote shut-down, and how he'll respond to basic spoken commands.

"Stay there, come to me, follow me, that kind of thing," says Kim Foster. "You have to say his registered name and the command, but he'll do it. His recognition software understands American English, British English, Hindi, Urdu, Mandarin, Russian, and Japanese."

Hank whistles. "That tiger's smarter than me. I'll be damned."

Connor grins. "With the basic commands-- it seems that Khan would be well-suited to interacting with visitors." 

"That's, err, how CyberLife originally marketed these animals to our organization." The director frowns. "The idea that they would serve as species ambassadors, especially the charismatic megafauna."

"But you don't employ them in that role here, do you?" asks Connor.

"It's been a back-and-forth with our organization. With the Friends of the Zoo. We know that CyberLife hosts its own zoological park-- to use the term loosely-- "

"Tigers aren't toys," Kim Foster says suddenly. "The focus should be on real animals. A real species, dying out because of our actions."

The director nods. "Yes-- that's how we've felt. My, ah, predecessor argued there was value in, ah, educational display of animal androids."

"It would have to be done carefully. It would have to be done with respect." Kim Foster squeezes her hands together. Her eyes flick briefly to Connor, dark eyes expressive. "I'm sorry, I'm very sorry, I don't know how to talk about this. It's--- I really, it's not my intention to offend--"

Connor holds up a hand. "Please, I understand completely what you're trying to say." 

Hank comes back into the conversation, scratching his beard, going for approachable. Uncle-like. “So, give us an idea ‘bout how it was like with the tiger. I’ve been here a couple times in the past, but I don’t think we saw him.”

Kim Foster hedges a moment, then begins again. “Khan would hide in the bamboo some of the time, but he's been spending more time laying out on his rock. He doesn’t need to sleep but the behavior is appropriate for big cats.” 

Hank asks, “You had any problems with him? Any malfunctions, weird behavior?”

“Back in the summer, he shut down for a few days. Several of the animals did.”

Connor glances at Hank, and then back to the zoo staff. “Shut down, or go into stasis?”

“Sorry. We found him unresponsive, but he came back online normally on his own."

Connor's LED is revolving slowly, still blue. He asks, “When in the summer?” 

“Late July, early August? I’m not sure. I was on vacation at the time." Here Kim Foster glances at the director and his secretary, who nods. "Some of the android birds were also unresponsive. There was— well, I was told that an android woman came into the zoo at night and… powered off. Died. I’m sorry, I don’t know what word to use.”

Connor's all over it. “What series android? Where was her body found? What day?” 

“I don’t know, off the top of my head. I’m sorry.” Kim Foster sighs. “I’m sorry, we’re talking about a missing tiger, and this woman… ”

“Hey, it’s all right,” Gavin says. “We can get that info later. You said you were gone anyway.” 

The director chimes in, "We'll have that for you shortly." Hank can't tell if the guy is blushing; he's sort of a round, red-cheeked man as it is.

“Was Khan acting differently when you came back?” asks Hank.

“Maybe. I don't know." Kim Foster won't look anyone in the eye. "He paced his cage for hours, and then… he just went into the bamboo and laid down. He stayed that way for days. Unresponsive to commands, either verbal or through his diagnostics tablet. He wouldn’t take any thirium. He would just lay there.”

“What did his activity log show?" asks Connor. "From the tablet.”

The director says, “We believe he experienced some kind of power surge or possibly an issue with overheating. He has thick fur and that’s difficult to vent out heat, unfortunately."

“That sounds plausible,” Connor replies, “I have to be careful about that too. So did his behavior change?” 

Kim Foster is swallowing hard. The director almost answers in her place, seeing her discomfort, but she holds up a hand lightly. "Khan seemed to improve when the weather cooled down," she tells them. "There he was, out there sitting on his rock."

Watching the tiger handler's face, Hank asks, “And how was Khan in November?” 

Her eyes shut tight.

 _Nooo_. Hank feels a weird interest. Could it be? He _knew_ this case was going to go off the rails.

Carefully, Kim Foster says, “The same as he usually is. Sitting out on his rock.” 

Connor meets Hank's eyes for a second. There's a slight upward tick to his brow, but then he returns his attention to the zoo staff. “What happened at the park during the crisis?” 

“Catastrophe," the director sighs. "I had to explain to that FBI agent that android animals couldn’t deviate, so far as we knew, and that it would be asinine to round them up." He puffs up. "Gentlemen, please— none of us, not one of us-- none of us wanted that. We all hated what happened to the androids, the round-ups, the camps— that’s not who we are. Let me be clear. All of it was terrible.” 

“We don’t have to talk about that,” Connor reassures them, “we’re just trying to build a picture of recent events.”

“I’m just so, so sorry,” Kim whispers.

The director's assistant leans in to her boss, motioning toward the tablet in her hand. 

Reed nods. "Security cam footage? Let's have a look."

"We'd like a copy of it," says Hank. "Connor can download it."

The director blinks. "Oh, of course. Yes, you can have it."

It's a speedy time-lapse review from several angles. The tiger habitat, the walkway and ledges above it, and some other shots from vantage places around the park. The place is pretty big, and adjoins a golf course, so the cameras can't look everywhere. And not everything's lit at nighttime.

Connor's hand is white when he touches the tablet. A moment passes and he has what he needs. Looking up, he requests, "I'd like to interface with other animals to see if they saw anything."

Hank has hazy memories of Connor in the Eden Club, racking up the strangest expenses on Hank's credit card. Still-- that's good thinking, actually.

"I've, ah, seen him do something like this before," Hank says. "It was effective."

Reed gives him a glance. He doesn't know it ended with the Tracis-- he'd left the club by then, snorting with derision. In fact, nobody knows how it ended up with the Tracis, nobody but Hank, Connor, and the Tracis.

The zoo director and assistant glance over each other. Kim Foster's the one to watch here. Connor doesn't look directly at her, but he's probably scanning her heart rate or something from there. 

The director says, "Ah, actually, the animals don't record. It's expensive and, well, we're mindful of guests' privacy." He smiles awkwardly at Connor. "I'm, uh, to understand that androids record events to their memory because it's pertinent to conversation, their tasks, and so forth, but--"

Connor smiles. “It’s all right, please, you don’t have to worry about offending me. You’re trying to tell me that animal androids don’t have the capacity to record and save long-term audio and video."

The assistant pipes up. “Some do— but, ah, we don’t enable that feature for our animals. There’s no reason to justify that kind of purchase or upgrade."

"And above all," the director hurries out, "we don't want our guests to feel uncomfortable in the park."

“All the same, do you mind if I try… ?” Connor asks.

In an undertone, the director says to his assistant: "Bring up Jivujivu, please."

Jivujivu turns out to be a Grey Crowned Crane android, a tall-walking bird with a slate-grey body. Black and white feathers flash for accent. It's wild to watch it follow the assistant up the stairs from the cafe-habitat below, stilting along on birdy legs. Its white-cheeked head turns to regard them with almost intelligence; it has a red wattle, gold crown of fluffy feathers, and unnerving blue eyes. A calm LED shows in its head.

Connor has crouched down, a smile breaking over his face as the crane approaches him. Hank can't help but grin; Connor has experienced so little of the world just yet.

Reed hides his look of impatience by getting a second cup of coffee.

Connor laughs, suddenly. Dimples appear.

"What is it, bud?" 

"I sent Jivujivu a message saying hello," Connor says, "and he asked me to talk out loud for benefit of the guests. Do they all say that?"

"It's standard, yes," the director's assistant replies. She's smiling, though-- how couldn't you, really. "Android caretakers do come through the parks."

Connor holds out his hand to the bird, cautiously, as if interacting with a real animal. Jivujivu allows itself to be petted. Hank imagines Connor grabbing the bird and making it deviant. _You're free now, go to Jericho!_

What would Markus think of this? 

Connor's skin goes back, and his white fingers carefully touch around the bird's face for access. Artificial feathers or fur might block the interface.

A moment passes. Connor's eyes shut.

Kim is tense.

Gavin says, “Hey. Connor.” 

“That was strange,” Connor murmurs, coming out of it. “You’re right. I can't pull up any records, but now I know a lot about _Balearica regulorum_.”

The zoo director seems a little more at ease. "You know, you're welcome to come out here any time," he says. "We-- we really appreciate that you've come out here, all of you. I'm, ah, not certain what else we could provide."

"Anything you can tell us about Snowball?" Hank asks. "The polar bear that went missing from here. Years back."

"That was before my tenure," the director replies, "so I couldn't provide much offhand. We believe it was a pathing error. We can look back in the archives to see if there's anything in there-- I'll have it sent to you, along with information about the android woman, the poor thing."

Hank nods. "Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch."

* * *

Back in the parking lot, Connor announces, “I want to talk to Kim Foster. Alone. But not yet.” 

Reed strolls along, still sipping his coffee. "Yeah, I noticed something was up. Couldn't tell if she's nervous talking to cops, talking to an android, or if she's got something more to say."

"Might be all three." Hank glances at Connor. "What do you think?"

“The timing isn’t right. I need to review some information.”

"Hey," says Hank. "Were you telling the truth about the bird? You can't see anything from it?"

"I told the truth, yes. It's like my vision blanked out. There were activity logs and some behavior sets. Background information on the species; if you scan the bird with an app, you can read it."

"I'm more worried bout Connor recording every fucking thing he sees," says Reed. "Aren't you supposed to delete that shit?" 

"It's not in a format you can easily access," Connor answers. "Don't worry. We're aware it makes humans uncomfortable. And if I saved one-to-one video of everything, it would eat up my storage."

"So," Hank interrupts, "Kim Foster. You think she stole him, or what?"

Reed gives Connor the stink eye, but then he answers, "I don't know. In real thefts… it’s always a zoo worker or a volunteer. But they almost always take exotic birds and reptiles. I don't think she did it. I think she'd be all right if the tiger stayed lost, but she's feeling guilty about it, you know?"

Hank wanted to get to his theory, which is this: "How can we be sure that Khan's not a deviant?" 

"If he's a deviant," Connor replies, "then he'd be the first." 

"So what." Reed makes a face. "We get Markus on the line and ask if Khan's hanging out there? If he's deviant, we're off the hook, then, right? No crime committed."

Hank should know better than to press this theory, but something about the tiger's story touched him. Probably the part where the tiger just seemed to lay around all day, like, fuck. That sounded like depression. Maybe he'd come alive and thought he was the only one? 

Connor shakes his head. "We already asked Jericho leadership about the tiger. He's not there. And none of them are entirely sure that an android animal can become deviant. When I interfaced with Jivujivu... it was more akin to pulling up information from a self-driving car or a terminal. It wasn't like interfacing with another android, especially a deviant."

Hank wonders just how many androids Connor's been out there interfacing with. "Well," he says, not ready yet to completely discard his theory, "you haven't interfaced with Khan yet. Maybe he's got another operating system or something. Anyway, just tossing that out there."

"Good point, we should still entertain all possibilities," Connor replies.

Reed looks like he's getting an idea, swirling his coffee around in the Serengeti Cafe cup. The devious expression highlights his resemblance to Elijah Kamski. “Hey Connor. How many liters of thirium do you think’s in a tiger?”

“Do you think this could be related to the Red Ice processing?” 

Hank hmms. “An android animal. A polar bear. A tiger. You could farm out a lot of thirium from a big body like that. You wouldn’t have to worry it would cry for help, escape, or deviate. But what kind of profit margin would you run with that setup?”

Gavin nods. “It’d be tight,” he says. “But you cook it with additives, little goes a long way.” 

“While that’s possible,” Connor muses, “there has to be something more. It makes little sense to me to go through the trouble to steal that tiger.”

“Unless Khan got out by himself, then got found. Crime of opportunity.” Gavin points at him from around his coffee cup. “Think about it, do the numbers. I got an appointment in 45. I’ll catch you tomorrow.”

“Don't worry, we’ll get you there in time,” says Connor.

“Oh, fuck no." Reed walks away drinking coffee. "I got a cab.”

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

Paperwork crushes the rest of the day. Fowler’s gone easy on Hank these last couple years. Longer than he should have. But the instant Hank gets one hand out of the pit, hauling himself up, the mountain of responsibility comes tumbling back down on him.

Time to be a police lieutenant. Jesus Christ— it’s what he wanted, but there are times he almost looks on Ben Collins with envy. Do your job, coast, get your pension.

Speaking of Ben, he’s still Reed’s partner, and he wants in on all they know about the Red Ice cases— and the android tiger, just in case. Leg stiff in its cast, he rolls himself over in fits and starts to their desk, going awkwardly off into uncharted territory at one point. Connor rises and goes to him, grips the chairback, and pushes him in toward their desks.

Hank lets Connor bring him up to speed. His head’s starting to throb, and the endless documents are pulling his eyes out of his skull. A vortex of bullshit.

“This tiger thing,” Ben says. “I got some golf buddies, I’ll ask them about it. There’s a course right off the zoo, you know?”

“Golfing in the snow,” grunts Hank, “kinda hardcore for a game with tiny carts, isn’t it?” 

“Why you gotta be like that, Hank.”

“Of all the things we millennials were supposed to kill— golf got away. How could you be such a traitor your generation?” 

Connor looks on this with a slowly blinking LED. Hank makes a mental note to upload Oregon Trail to his drive. If they’re gonna be partners, Connor’s gotta know about this shit. He’s got to know what it was _like_.

“You’ve never even tried it.” Ben Collins grins at him. “Anyway, we don’t golf in the snow, Jesus. But we do meet at the clubhouse time to time, bring the wives. Craft beers, hamburgers, that kind of thing. I’ll ask the staff.”

“That makes sense,” Connor replies. “Reviewing the camera footage may also be of use to this investigation.”

Ben Collins tries to itch beneath his cast with a pen. His own pen, at least. “So you guys, you got any good leads?”

“Yeah. No. The thing just gets weirder the more we look into it.”

“Gavin really wanted to get that tiger.” Ben makes a face as he digs around beneath the cast. 

“Ben, fuck’s sake,” growls Hank. 

“Sorry. Look, hey. You know, Gavin used to be a lot like you, Connor, when he showed up at the precinct. He couldn’t do patrol just yet, so we had him around here. Man. He was a beast. High energy. Paperwork, reports, anything you threw at him. Solved two cases from his fucking desk! And one from a sister precinct too. Remember that?” 

“Like it was yesterday,” Hank drawls. “Almost like he keeps throwing it in our faces all the fucking time.” _I can do more from my desk than you can in the field, blah blah, Jesus Christ._ He leans his head into his hand, elbow propped on the desktop. But Connor’s watching intently, absorbed in this conversation. Just vacuuming up all these Reed Facts.

“He wasn’t medically cleared. I assume it’s something to do with a cranial injury. Does he have a TBI? Is that why his behavior has been so erratic and hostile?” Connor leans back. His brow knits with concern. “I shouldn’t have concussed him; that could aggravate the situation. I could have found another way to restrain him--”

“You did what you had to do,” Hank says. “We’ve been over this. Nobody’s at fault.” Yeah it sucks what happened to Reed but he's still an asshole.

Ben, who gets along with everybody, just blinks. “Gavin’s been this way the whole time, far as I can tell. Real intense.”

“I’d like to earn his trust,” Connor vows in that soft rasp voice of his, “and I know that will be difficult. I really do want to work here in the precinct.” 

“He’s prickly,” Ben says. “You gotta meet him where he’s at, I think. But I only got so far, and we’re partners. But don’t let it get you down. You’re a good guy, Connor, you know that?”

“I want to be.”

* * *

An hour into night shift coming in, Hank calls it quits. The screen is starting to blur, and his thoughts wander. Fowler wants to set up a time to review the closed-out android cases, the precinct has reports needing his approval, and somehow, he feels it all fall away in importance. He’s failing at what matters, that’s what he’s thinking.

Connor takes the keys from his hand as they go out to the lot. Hank starts to protest, but Connor gives him a firm look that transforms into a little grin. He spins the keys on his fingers, flicking them back and forth with a jingle.

It’s a cold grey night, dark for hours, dark too soon. Hank clambers into the passenger side. Connor slides in to drive, sitting tall and straight, making his adjustments. It's like watching a Crash Test Dummy strapping itself in. As he tilts the mirror, Connor smiles, half at himself, half at Hank. He says, “By the way, two minutes ago, the zoo staff sent me the serial number of the android woman that broke into the park in the summer.” 

“You gonna send it on to Jericho?”

“Yes, and check it against our records to see if anyone filed a missing property report.”

Hank shuts his eyes. “Seems kind of fucked up,” he drawls, “that this woman’s life is a footnote in a missing robot tiger investigation.”

“We might find more information about her circumstances in doing so,” Connor replies. “I’m sorry this makes you uncomfortable. I noticed the zoo staff were uncomfortable with me, too. Trying to decide who is and who isn’t a person. What makes someone alive.”

Hank reaches for his travel cup. It’s been sitting here all day, but the parking deck’s cold, and the drink is only black coffee with a spritz of whiskey. “D’you think the android animals are alive?”

“Yes and no. It’s as you said, Hank, I think. That all we can do is treat them with respect and ensure they’re well cared-for.”

“Connor.” He’s just going to get to it.

“Yes, Hank?” 

“I can’t stop thinking about your memory thing. I wanna help you. That’s my priority right now.”

“Thank you, Hank. That means a lot to me. I can’t remember a time that a human has ever truly wanted to help me.”

“To be fair, you can’t remember shit, so. Look. It seems dumb going to go do paperwork, some presentation for Fowler, and, you know, the fuckin’ zoo visit… when you’ve got this huge problem hanging over your head. What do you wanna do? How can we beat this?”

“It’s best to wait,” he tells Hank as they join the highway. “If I disappear on some vigilante mission on my own, CyberLife will attempt to destroy me. I know they must be keeping updates on me, even without my tracker. They can’t afford not to. But if I go to work every day, if I keep myself busy, I’m safest at the precinct— and I can build a reputation for myself. At the same time, I’ll find a way to regain access to my memories.”

“You do good work. Great work. Hell, Connor, I’m proud to work with you. But, Jesus Christ, CyberLife’s done some awful shit. They just can’t get away with it.”

“I want to tell you that they won’t, Hank, but we’ll see. I can’t take them on myself; they have power, reach, and influence that I do not. None of us do.”

“I don’t want them using their money and power to just… sweep this shit under the rug with the amnesty bill, when it comes. Listen. You thought about… going to someone about all this?” 

“Do you mean federal law enforcement,” says Connor, half-playfully, “or a therapist?”

“I ‘unno. Seems like this is pretty fucked up, so, all of the above.”

“I’ll consider my options if they approach me.”

“Maybe for the best. You don’t know who you can trust. That guy Perkins, what the fuck. He got out of line fast, down there at the barricades. And did you hear that right, back at the zoo? Was he _seriously_ down at the zoo, trying to get them round up the animals? The fucking fuck? What kind of cartoon villain bullshit is that?

“I've thought about that, too. I can understand Perkins trying to take the case from the locals, but to go down to the barricades? To inject himself there? Far out of line. He could have been sent to ensure the situation played out to CyberLife’s interests.” A beat. "I'm glad you hit him. That was satisfying."

“With any luck, CyberLife and this admin throw each other under the bus at the same time.” Hank rubs his face. “Hey. Let’s at least find your song. That’s something we can do. I hate this music but I'll do what we gotta do.”

“Thank you, Hank, but I listened to hours of the genre last night.”

“Oof. Didn’t find it? Nothing jumped out at you?”

“I’m starting to think that maybe it wasn’t the song that was important, but something about it. I believe I played the song on a piano.” 

“Hmm. Play the piano, mix cocktails. You get tired of this gig, I bet you could land a place at some classy piano bar.” 

“It’s funny you mention that, Hank. I considered the possibility that I attended a holiday party. Last night, I contacted six major hotels and five clubs in the greater Detroit metro area, as well as two venues in New York and Tokyo.”

“Holy shit. A CyberLife Christmas party.” 

“Yes. I considered the possibility as well that watching the film last night could have put this idea in my head.” Connor grins at him and he forces his face to be neutral, attentive. “However, I’m convinced that the detail of a Pleyel piano is important. None of the venues would confirm private parties or events having happened on their calendar, but I could ask them about pianos in their ballrooms and lounges.”

All the while, Hank's brain, buzzed from Irish coffee, has started to think: CyberLife Christmas party. Connor at their party. The whiskey was supposed to help him in small doses, but now his stomach's turning over. Connor playing the piano, mixing cocktails. These fucking hideous people cruising around, cruel and self-important. _I can be anything you want me to be._

"Hank?"

A cold sweat prickles over him. Shit, he doesn't know how to bring this up with Connor. Should he? Should he find a professional? Connor's basically a mannequin, so far as he knows, but still. Jesus Christ, what if. Why did he fucking make the comment about the piano bar? Can't he use his fucking head? Catching up, Hank says, "Uh, yeah, you uh, you have any luck? With the search?"

“Unfortunately— not yet. Do you feel all right, Hank?"

Sadness and rage twist in his gut. Connor seems pleasant, even a little excited to share his progress, so maybe he shouldn't get into this right now. Don't want to trash his mood when he's doing so well. Though, _fuck_ if it isn't going to haunt him.

"Uh, just coffee and alcohol on an empty stomach," he says. "Hey um. You missed our exit. You want to go to these places in person? S’that where you’re taking us?” Shit. He’d go to Japan tonight if that’s what Connor wanted.

“Not right now,” Connor says. “I’d like to show you where I’ve been staying. I need to pick up a few items there, including, quote _normal people clothes_ unquote. And— Hank? Do you mind if I stay with you, just for the holidays?” 

“Course not. Stay as long as you need. I already told you that. Also I don't think you need to like, do the unquote thing.”

"It closes the tag, Hank." But before Hank can tell him he's a fuckin' dork, Connor says, almost shyly, “Hank, I’m— I’m sorry I want to talk to you all the time.”

“Hey. Don’t apologize. You don’t bother me, not really. Been a while since anybody’s wanted to hang out, you know? Just leave me some me-time.” 

Very seriously, Connor turns to him and vows, “I promise I won’t talk to you while you shit.”

Hank rumbles with an especially theatric sigh. “God be thanked."

“Hank?”

“Yeah.”

Connor’s LED blinks out blue and comes back yellow. He smiles tightly with raw emotion, eyes fixed on the road. His fingers clench a little bit on the wheel. “There is a risk that if CyberLife is watching me now, they will know where I go, and they will know if I stay with you. I’ve removed my tracker, and I don’t want to endanger you, but—”

Yeah, yeah. Hank cuts him off, not sharp. “I already thought about that and I don’t care," he says, giving up a weary smile. "They’re cowards, fuck ‘em. I got your back. You wanna wait, wait with me. You wanna fight, I’ll fight with you. When those fuckers burn down, I'll piss on the ashes.”

They ride in near-silence, the faintest buzz of Christmas music. After all this time, the lyrics are burnt to the back of his skull. At least he’s on a Motown Christmas mix, the best of a bad situation. 

Hank’s looking out the window for clues. Trying to piece together neighborhoods as the lamplights go by. Guess at where Connor could be taking him. He imagines RK800 idling in a cardboard factory or an office supply store. Just standing upright, stapler in each hand, among a stack of eight a half by elevens. 

He’d never guess where they end up. The place is one of those homes from the ‘60s, redone with a considerable addition out the back. It’s weird but quaint, a mishmash of Zen architecture and old Detroit. Snow blankets the garden area, but Hank can see the suggestions of boulders and gold cypress bushes, a few ornate maples, and a little stone pagoda. The bamboo is green and vibrant as ever.

The sign reads: HURON PARK MEDITATION CENTER, and beneath it, in a soft electric glimmer, ANDROIDS WELCOME, ALL BEINGS WELCOME.

After Connor’s parked and pulled the emergency brake, he sits a moment, watching Hank. And Hank knows this moment is important. His reaction is important.

“Hey, uh, groovy,” he says.

* * *

The interior gives the impression of being much larger than it is. Looks wide open and calming, with faux hardwood floors and everything low to the ground. There’s a lot of neutral beige and white and brown, but wild colors catch Hank’s eye. The upper walls are full of robin’s egg blue and splashes of yellow, green, and pink. He gets lost in the flashes of prayer flags, the wise faces in portraits, and in the crazy-looking murals of the otherworld and fantastical beings. Paper lanterns put a soft glow everywhere, warm and inviting.

Because he’s got tiger on the brain, Hank spots a painting that depicts a yin-yang with a white tiger and a dragon locked in combat. 

“What do you think?” Connor asks, softly.

Hank points up. “I think that would look badass on the bottom of a skateboard,” he says.

Connor’s brow furrows. “It’s a symbol of duality in myth,” he says. “We should take off our shoes. We can leave them here.”

Hank heels off his shoes, trying not to grin in amazement at this place. Is Connor really into this stuff? And look at him, in his sock feet, still in that cop uniform. Hank’s been a cop thirty-some years and Connor looks fucking scary in those Class A’s. The hippies are going to shit if they see him like this.

“I wanted you to meet Tami,” Connor tells him over his shoulder, “but she’s not here tonight. I just need to grab a few things, so we won’t be long.”

“I’d never have guessed,” Hank says, “but you know, it’s great you’re reaching out, getting to know people in the community. I’m sure these people are nice.”

Hank catches sight of a few people coming down the staircase. Hears them first, with the way the steps creak and groan. A few humans, an even mix of young and old, and at least two androids. Hank thinks so anyway— the faces look familiar, a black man with the wry intelligent features of the educator model, and the lively, eyecatching beauty of a black-haired ST, kind and expressive. They’re carrying an assortment of yoga mats, blankets, and cushions.

The sight of a sleek police uniform gives them some pause, but at least a few of them recognize him. The ST gives him a sweet look. 

Hank makes sure to be on his best behavior. Well, with the wild colors of his shirt today, at least he fits in on that front. Connor exchanges a few pleasantries but presses on. (He said they wouldn’t be long, and Connor hates dilly-dallying.) 

Connor flashes a quick smile, but his shoulders are a tight line in the immaculate uniform. He leads into a side room, what might have originally been the parlor of the house, when it had been a house. It’s a cozy room of floor cushions and wicker chairs. A paper lantern provides soft orange light.

There’s an android here, seated on a cushion with a shawl wrapped around itself. It wears no other clothing, and it wears no skin. It— they. What they’ve been through, Hank can’t imagine: some kind of experimentation has taken the back of the android’s skull and the front of their faceplate from the nostrils upward. Multiple limbs have been attached to them at the shoulder blades, like strange naked wings folded neatly beneath the shawl. Long arms, sets of hands, with fine bone-white articulated fingers. Beautiful and eerie.

The android’s eyes are blank, the blue-on-black dead gleam of shut-off optics. Yet there is a faint smile on their beautiful genderless face.

“They like to sit by the aquarium,” Connor says. 

Hank did not notice the 100-gallon tank with foot-long koi in it. Funny how things will grip your attention.

“Is, are they awake? Hello?”

“They’re in stasis right now. We’re not bothering them.”

All of Connor’s worldly possessions live in a backpack stuffed in a cubby in a closet off the parlor. He slings it over his shoulder, and they’re good to go. Hank’s eyes linger on the multi-limbed android on their cushion.

“G’night,” he says.

Outside, headed back to the car, Connor explains, “I’ve asked 2-262 if they want to go to Jericho, but they prefer to stay here, and they’re in stasis much of the time. I believe they’re rebuilding their mind palace. They, myself, and two other androids are the regulars here at night.” 

“Are they hurt?”

“No, we don’t feel pain. They don’t remember what it was like before it happened, if that’s what you mean. They prefer to be as they are now. They know it makes some people uncomfortable.”

“What happened?”

“I’ve asked, but they won’t tell me. They say it’s done. I told them that the police could help find justice. To keep it from happening to other androids. They said… it was taken care of.” 

Hank shudders. 

Connor places his backpack in the trunk, shuts it. His hands remain on the vehicle. Then he looks up. “I want to show you something else. I know it’s cold. I know it’s dark.”

“You callin' me a wimp? Let’s go. Let’s have a look.”

Hank’s rewarded with a grateful little smile. He follows Connor out into the Zen garden. It’s mud where it isn’t melting snow, but still, there’s charm to the orderly space.

"I was going to kill Markus, you know. After the tower."

"Okay, what? You're dropping bombs here, Connor." 

"On the platform for his victory speech. I found myself preparing to kill him. My weapon was out. CyberLife took control of my program and wanted me to assassinate him."

"What the fuck. No wonder why you didn't want to go to Jericho." Hank shakes his head. "I know you want to be responsible, but that's over. They can't get you. That didn't happen, and Markus is fine. He's interested in being your friend."

"Remember when I told you I made reports by closing my eyes? I would go to my mind palace. I would interface with an AI that represented my handlers in the VR world. They made it look like Dr Amanda Stern-- one of the foremost AI experts. Elijah Kamski's mentor." 

Hank remembers the name now, distantly. She died the year that Kamski resigned from the company.

"CyberLife told me through the Amanda-AI that they knew I might go deviant. They said they were waiting for me to find Jericho, to get close to Markus." 

"They coulda just said that out of spite, too. You becoming deviant... Connor, no one can take that away from you. You becoming free on your own.”

"But if it's true: how did they know I would deviate? How could they be so sure?"

"Look. After I dried out a little, I knew you were gonna go deviant. It just made sense to me. New prototype, super smart, sense of empathy. And you're nosy as fuck. Curious about everything. Driven. Of course you'd break out of your programming.”

A shadow falls across Connor’s face. “When did you know?” 

“I d'know for sure." Hank rubs his cracked hands together for warmth. "I guess I knew when you didn't kill those Tracis. You let them get away. It was your mission, they were right there, hell, one of 'em fucking stabbed you with a screwdriver. They were coming right at you. But you let them go."

Connor looks away sharply. Hank can't see his LED from this angle but he can guess the color. 

"Hey. That was the right thing to do. I'm not bustin you for that. And if I said or did anything at the time, well, I was fucked up." 

"It wasn't fair," Connor says softly. 

"No, Connor, it wasn't. CyberLife made people into toys, into slaves. That's over with. They're safe, you're safe."

With slowly building courage, Connor turns to him and tells him: "They deserved to be free. But after all that happened to them, after all that was done to them. They remembered each other. They shouldn't have... but they did." A weird distant look comes over his face, something secretive, wonderful, sublime. His expression opens to a beautiful smile, and if he could breathe like humans did, he would take in a deep and powerful breath.

Goosebumps prickle over Hank's skin. Not just from the biting cold of the winter garden. He remembers coming out to the park after that, sitting and looking out at the water and the bridge. Connor had broken into his home to help him. Connor had tried to be his friend. He'd started wanting Connor to be real. 

Hank feels a lump forming in his throat. The cold makes his eyes start to water. Now is the moment for something profound. But all he can say is, "I'm freezing my ass off. You got all your hippie shit?" 

Connor's mysterious smile morphs into a smart-aleck smirk. “Yes, Hank, I got my shit.”

“Hey, listen. This suits you, I think.”

A quirked eyebrow. “Do you think it fits my personality?”

“Yeah. Order. Patience. Wisdom. Aaand you were always kinda anime.”

“My world— it looked like this. A Zen garden. That’s why I came out here, originally. It called to me. I recognized it. I wanted to go to you, after the revolution… but I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”

“You can always come home to me, okay,” Hank tells him. Damn this cold, damn his stinging eyes. “But I’m glad you’re making friends here. And I’m sorry I called it hippie shit, and you an anime. I, this is good stuff, Con. I hope you build your world back again.”

“Me too. Let’s get you back to the car," Connor says, "since you’re old and sick.” 

Hank's grateful for the laugh. “Connor, you bitch,” he says fondly. This whole day, he doesn't know what the fuck. As they walk, he bumps shoulders with Connor. Anybody else it would knock 'em down but RK800 is as upright as a steel rod. “Hey, I’m glad you brought me out here. I’ll go back with you sometime, and we’ll meet your friends. And the android in the fishtank room.”

“I’d like that, Hank.”

“I wonder if they got anything for you 'bout past lives and reincarnation? Yeah, that's their thing, right? You gotta be patient with me, all I know's from movies and the time I dated a yoga instructor...”


	6. Chapter 6

They get the call next morning, 0500. They’re out the door and Hank’s got major bubbleguts, so hope to fuck they don’t hit too many potholes along the way. _Please baby Jesus gimme a Christmas miracle._

Maybe they could squeal the car in like an action movie. Hank pops out, points his gun, shits his pants, and yells, “FREEZE motherfucker!” That’ll show the perp. Always leverage psychological warfare. He’s sure that’s something an RK800 could appreciate.

Hank’s gulping down a bottle of pink bismuth as he weaves off East Vernor onto their exit. Out here the road looks like the surface of the moon. And they’re headed to a nice place! At least the rich people don’t drive themselves.

He’s trying to keep his eyes on the road but Connor’s up to something, clambering out of the passenger side. There’s a mannequin pajama butt going into the backseat. “Whatta you doing? Get your seatbelt back on.”

“I brought my uniform so I could change in the car,” Connor tells him from the back. “I can’t show up to a crime scene like this, it’s unprofessional.”

“You think the knife-wielding psycho cares if you’re in your sleep pants?”

“I want him to know that I take his concerns seriously,” Connor protests. “You can’t arrive at successful negotiations without establishing the appropriate rapport.” 

Hank glances back. Maybe he’s got a point. The top-of-the-line RK800 death machine is hitting cartoon puppy levels of cute in his hoodie and sweatpants. Soon as they got the call, Connor rushed him out the door. ”Jesus Christ Connor,” he’d complained, “this ain’t my first rodeo. We have time to change, and I gotta shit!” And high-strung Connor snapped at him, “You can shit on the way!” 

How did he think this all worked??

“Look,” grunts Hank, “we’re almost there, so. No heroes. You don’t fight a guy with a knife, you got that?”

“Got it.”

“Try to talk him down, or I d’know, use your deviant powers or whatever.” 

“I’m aiming for a peaceful solution.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna fuckin shoot him otherwise. You don’t play around with knives.”

“I can handle this, Hank.”

“Yeah well if you don’t, and he cuts off your fuckin head, I’m gonna put it in a fishbowl and stick it in the corner, so you can think about your lesson.”

The hula girl wobbles on the dash as they pull up in the parking lot. There’s a dirty crust of half-melted snow that keeps them from going further in. Hardly anybody comes out to the marina this time of year, but there’s a muddy path of boot prints up to the yacht club building proper.

A squad car’s already here, and Reed’s vehicle, a generic self-driving SUV. It’s the old thing about people his generation not giving a shit about what kind of car they have, so long as it drives itself. They all like to fuck around on their phones and watch movies in traffic. So did Hank, time to time, til he found out the hard way that self-drives are shit in icy conditions.

Jackson and Daweed are here, night shift guys. They’re standing around shooting the shit beneath a covered walkway.

“Ey, Hank.” Jackson meets him with a cool handshake. Thank God, it’s been hard crawling out of bad performance and trying to be a good cop again. “The guy’s probably long gone by now. We looked around the property, didn’t find anything.” 

Daweed’s holding a travel mug. “Reed’s in there right now with the caretaker. Going over cam footage. The android must have run away when he tripped the alarm.”

“It’s supposed to be silent, but I guess they know, you know?” Then Jackson squints. “Hey, your guy getting changed in the backseat?” 

Hank glances back at his car. Damn it, Connor. “Eh, yeah, he wanted to get out ASAP. For safety. And uh don’t worry about it, he doesn’t have anything, he’s like a Ken Doll.”

Right as he makes it to the front door, reaching for the handle, Hank cringes, wheels around, and goes back to the guys. “Yeah I wanna explain that statement,” he says, “I’m just sayin I know he’s a Ken Doll ‘cause Dumbass got himself smashed to bits on the highway one time, so that’s how I know."

Jackson and Daweed watch him silently the whole time.

Then Daweed says, softly, “Holy fuck. He okay?”

“No, he fucking died. But then he reincarnated like an hour later.”

Hank’s never been inside a yacht club before. It smells like new carpet and there’s old-timey boat shit everywhere, glorious Great Lakes history. As you walk in, there’s a huge boat wheel with a bronze plaque attached. 

Connor catches up to him within a half-minute or so. He’s wearing crisp black uniform pants, but he’s still got his dark hoodie on. 

“I ripped two of the buttons on the uniform shirt by accident,” he says by way of explanation.

“Relax, nobody cares. You look fine.” Hank shakes his head. “They think the android split. We’ve heard that before, so be careful, we might have a lurker. Let’s get with Reed first.”

They go through the lobby into a fancy nautical-themed restaurant bar, a place Hank might actually like to have a beer and burger at, if the crowd wasn’t so fucking hoity-toity. There’s an admin area off a back hallway, and that’s where they find Reed and the caretaker.

The guy’s a middle-aged white guy with heavily sun-damaged skin. No neck, big meaty hands. He has black hair but a gingery beard, and he gives them way too many details.

The marina is technically closed during the winter, but owners and members are provided keys and electronic access to get into the building. Winter’s a good time for repairs and paint jobs, so hired maintenance comes out to do that. 

Early this morning an alarm went off; security footage showed a damaged android trying to gain access to the north wing of the building. He ran away. Going back through the footage, the cameras show the same android milling around the edges of the property. No one noticed.

Hank guesses that the caretaker is worried he’ll get in trouble. He didn’t notice a few seconds of some rando walking around the outskirts, when, really, the android wasn’t even trespassing the first couple of times.

“There’s a park adjoining the property,” Hank points out. “It’s a public park. What were you supposed to do, call the cops on a guy on public property? Hindsight’s 20/20.”

This does little to reassure the man. He’s probably worried he’ll lose his job. Who knows what the owners will decide.

“Let’s take a look around,” Reed says. He’s got his travel mug to his lip when he finally notices Connor— he’s never seen Connor out of his suit or his uniform.

Hank doesn’t think that RK800 is Reed’s type, but the sight of Hoodie Connor taps into a million years of nesting instincts. Reed looks disgusted with himself, for once in his life.

They go up and down the docks, the eastern boardwalk, and along the northern edges where the marina property meets the park. Everything is a mess. The sleet and drizzle melted things only enough, and the night lows froze it over again. They’re saying it’ll snow again in the next few days.

“He’s a WR600, a gardener-groundskeeper model,” Connor tells them as they go. “Parks and landscaped areas like this may feel familiar to him. I can’t say for certain but his damage patterns resemble those of a WR600 I encountered previously on a case. Due to memory transfer issues I can’t make an exact comparison: unfortunately I was killed in a traffic accident that day.”

Reed glances over at Hank before continuing his search. The sun is starting to gain strength to the east across the water.

After a moment, Reed says, “I d’know a lot about bots, but I never heard of this memory transfer thing til you. How come you can do it but nobody else can?”

“Memory upload was an experimental feature. It allows for a certain level of risk in dangerous situations, as well as continuity of investigations. In its most basic sense, however, it’s what allows RK800s to function. There’s a certain trial-error training period to ensure the complex abilities and base personality are adequately developed.”

“So… it’s like a save file. CyberLife doesn’t have to waste a bunch of time training up each unit and making sure it works. They just load a save, boom, that’s it.”

Hank hadn’t thought about it that way, but now it makes sense.

Connor considers. “Yes, I suppose something like that. But I can’t do that anymore, so, if I die now, I’m dead.”

“No more respawns beyond this point,” Reed muses. “Just like the rest of us. So what, you the only RK out there now? Just you and the 400s?”

When Hank gives Connor a questioning look, Connor adds, "The RK400s were a limited series placed with federal law enforcement." His eyes narrow, either in scanning or in thought. His tone has been neutral. "It's reported that they voluntarily submitted to deactivation in November. I can find no further information at this time."

Hank shakes his head. “Jesus Christ. Like the PCs and PMs. Obedient to the end.”

He wonders what Connor must think. Did he know any of them? Did they have the same training? Hank bets Connor's twice as good, anyway, but holy hell. He can't imagine how any of those agents could turn their partners in to die. He'd made up his mind on Connor in less than a week: anything for this goofy plastic bastard.

Reed says nothing. It would be a good time for him to chime in for points, but he just drinks his coffee instead. Maybe he feels guilty. Maybe he’s tired of people coming down on him about Connor at work. It’s a mess, but Gavin hasn’t made it any easier for himself.

As they reach the northern end of the marina property, where fences and scrubby evergreens keep the boundary, Connor tenses up. He’s like one of those hunting dogs now. He’s fixed on an outbuilding, a pre-fab shed. “The lock’s broken,” he says. 

“Okay, let’s have a look,” says Hank, “but leave room for him to run out. Don’t corner him.”

“Connor, whatever you do, don’t try to fight a guy with a knife,” Gavin tells him. “I’m tellin’ you this right now. No matter how fast you think you can dodge or pull a gun, don’t fuckin’ do it.”

“I told him the same thing.” Hank’s vindicated.

“Hey." Gavin squints. He jerks his chin back toward the parking lot. “What if I go get my taser? What happens if we tase a bot?”

Matter-of-factly, Connor replies, “The electrical current turns us evil. It’s the same as being struck by lightning, actually.”

“Huh.”

Hoodie Connor looks over his shoulder. A slight smile. “That was a joke, Detective Reed. Don’t tase androids.”

Boot prints lead up to the outbuilding. Connor points out brown-black drops in the snow. Now the three of them all fight for who’s walking point, so they walk abreast, just about.

Connor’s scanning. “Blood,” he says. 

He drops to a crouch, and Hank grimaces, mouth open to complain. Then he thinks twice; disgusting as it is, it’s useful, and anyway, Reed hasn’t seen him do this before so this ought to be good.

“What the _fuck_ are you serious???”

Golden.

“He’s a walking forensics lab,” Hank replies, playing it cool and casual like he's some RK expert now. “Thought you knew that, Reed.”

“I didn’t know he puts it in his fucking MOUTH.”

“Hey, keep it down.”

“It’s not human blood,” Connor tells them. He brushes past them now to walk slowly around the shed, passing close to the walls. His LED blinks yellow in a busy way: Hank doesn’t think it’s nerves. Connor lives for this shit. Maybe it’s more of a processing color.

“No one’s in here,” Connor announces. “I’d be able to detect him. All the same, let me look.” He opens the doors wide, letting in the morning light. 

The shed contains all the miscellany that the maintenance people don’t need to protect from the climate. No chemicals, no fuels. Looks like extra lawn chairs, loungers, seasonal decorations, rakes, shovels, that sort of thing. Big plastic tubs of storage. Pallets.

The crisp cold temperatures keep the stink down. They don’t smell it right away; even Connor is slowly turning his head, testing the air. 

More brown-black stains spattered on the plywood floors.

“Con,” Hank warns.

“No one’s in here,” Connor tells him. “It’s clear. But there’s dead organic matter. The blood belonged to rats.”

Reed pushes past them to go in. Hank lets him; there’s no point trying to fight. Before he pissed off Allen and the guys for the last time, Reed used to do a full and then part-time gig on the SWAT team. By all accounts, he was great at first— but Allen told Hank, point blank, “Trust is the one thing you need on this team. You have to have each other’s back.”

“Aw, nasty.” Reed’s found it. “Bunch of cut-up rats in a ripped-up bag. Why the fuck, this smells like shit.”

Hank’s keeping an eye out, standing at the entry, just in case somebody tries to shut them in there or attack while they’re all goggling at crazy-people stashes. “Well, Gavin. It’s the most wonderful time of the year.”

Then Reed takes in a sharp breath. Connor whirrs; it’s one of those deep internal sounds coming on, like a fan system in a console or laptop.

“What is it?”

“It’s androids,” Reed says. “With the rat pile. There’s a busted arm here. Pieces of body plates.”

A disgusted sound. “Fuck, there’s some loose eyes. And a face.”

Connor’s LED is red. He’s frozen in place.

Reed draws back in slow, horrified wonder. “Holy shit,” he says. “It’s you!”

* * *

They put the android pieces in an evidence bag. The arm’s too big for the standard size, but Daweed digs around in his squad car equipment. He finds something large enough.

There’s a brief and uncomfortable back-and-forth centered around the parts. Hank puts an end to it: “These are all RK800 pieces from when Connor died. They belong to him. We’ve taken snaps of the scene and we’ve taken evidence. Other than trespassing, no other crime was committed here.”

It’s a weird situation without precedent, so Hank’s no-nonsense rebuttal does the trick. Connor’s quiet and disengaged; Hank will remember forever the image of Gavin Reed in purple nitrile gloves lifting the white plastic of Connor’s broken face out of that grisly rotten rodent pile.

* * *

Jericho sends a team out to meet them. A nondescript late-’20s van slides open to let out a squad of cool Matrix people. When they walk up they look like they’re coming through a slow-mo group shot.

Aside from the AP’s, there’s Simon, Kara, and two identical WR600s. Hank walks out to meet them, shaking Simon’s gloved hand. Reed hangs back; aside from Connor and the android they interrogated, he’s never interacted with any deviants. Hank would guess he’s not sure what to do, and he always hates being caught offguard.

Connor’s pulled himself together, and he’s all business when he brings them up to speed. Hank catches Simon getting a look at the hoodie, just as he thought.

“We’d like to search for Ralph ourselves,” Kara says, her eyes flicking from Simon’s face to Connor’s. “I think he’d react best to someone he knows.”

“We’re both the same model,” says the WR600 on the left.

Says the one on the right, “We’ll know what he’s been through.”

Connor is the only android present with an LED, and its color sticks on red. Hank feels a pang of regret about the CyberLife Connor; too bad it had to end that way. Simon’s face and eyes soften, and he looks about to say something before Connor’s light blinks out and comes back yellow. “Of course,” he says, “of course, that makes sense. Hank?” 

“I’m good with that,” Hank says. “You’re taking some risk on yourselves, but you raised some solid points. We don’t want him to get desperate. Just keep us informed, and if you can’t bring him home peacefully— call us that instant. We need to make sure people don’t get hurt.”

“Thank you,” Kara says, smiling tightly. “It’s good seeing you again, Connor— in better circumstances.” 

“You as well, Kara.” Connor sounds polite, but there’s a down turn in his voice. This might be too much for him right now.

Hank and Simon glance at each other at the same time. Simon nods once, almost imperceptibly, chin up.

“Kara, why don’t you take lead on this,” Simon tells her, pleasantly. She makes her goodbyes short and sweet, excusing herself with the team of WR600s and three of the AP’s.

Two APs remain at a remove, bodyguards, perhaps, but Simon’s safe here. “Let’s walk back to the cars,” he offers. “I don’t want our human friends to be cold out here. I’m Simon, by the way, I handle most of the day-to-day affairs at Jericho.”

Reed looks like he was caught trying to sneak out of this, and he frowns. “Gavin Reed,” he says. 

“Detective Reed has been assigned to our team,” Connor tells Simon.

“Temporarily,” Gavin protests.

“He’s a good detective. He’s focused primarily on Red Ice issues but he’s been helping us with android matters.”

Hank decides to let Connor have this, so far, unless he looks like he’s struggling. And let Reed deal with a real live Jericho deviant.

“It’s good to meet you.” Simon offers his hand, and Gavin balks. Simon’s sad gay boy eyes are hitting him right where he lives. Guy like Simon is too good for that shitbird, though.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Detective Reed was picking through some unsavory things.” Connor covers for him, and it’s a good excuse anyway. Gavin’s tossed his gloves by now and washed his hands to bright red, but still.

Simon reacts with total understanding, and a little touch of chagrin. “Oh, I’m sorry. Of course. Listen, an update on the serial number you asked us to find. We located the woman.”

“I know your medical team is overtasked,” Connor begins, “but if we could have a forensic examination of her body—”

“She’s alive. However, she was reluctant to identify herself, given all that’s happened. We found her in the camp. She has no memory of what happened before. She didn’t know about the zoo.”

Hank huhs. “Wonder if she was headed through Ferndale, looking for Jericho hangouts, and she ended up in the park. It's right there." That makes sense, at least.

“Could you run her number through your database?” asks Simon. “It might be helpful to her to find more context about her life before. Some androids… they don’t want to know.” There’s a slight catch to his voice there. “But some do.”

“We’ll let you know if we find anything,” Connor replies. “She’s welcome to contact me if anything surfaces.”

Reed’s already walking away from the conversation, headed back to the cars. Hank waits until he’s out of earshot before he remarks, offhanded-sounding, “Y’know, I don’t know how that even works. Android memory.” He scratches his beard to buy a beat or two of time; let Connor firm up if he needs to. “If you get erased, how do you get your memories back?”

Thankfully, Simon’s attentive to the question, and he isn’t watching Connor. At least directly: Hank’s not sure if Simon can scan and see around him like Connor seems to do. “It’s complicated,” Simon tells him. “The short answer is that we don’t know, exactly. No one does, not yet. We’re still trying to figure that out ourselves.”

“Just curious,” Hank says. “Thank you for comin’ out, Simon.” 

Connor says nothing on the way back to the car, not until he notices the road home beyond the dashboard. 

“Why are we going home?” he says. 

“Look, I don’t know how I’d deal with it if I found my face, eyes, and arm in a bloody bag of rat guts. Maybe you wanna take the day off. You’ve done enough already; I’ll be home after six.”

“No.” Somehow the hoodie makes Connor twice as petulant. “I want to go to work. I’m not emotionally compromised by what happened.”

“Listen. I feel like a creep riding around with your body parts in a bag in my trunk.”

“It’s hermetically sealed and ambient temperatures are low. It will be fine through the end of the day.”

“Well, we’re going home anyway. We’ll put it in the garage and we’ll see how you feel when we get there.

“This isn’t necessary, unless you absolutely can’t shit at work.”

“I shit wherever I want. I’m just trying to do you a favor, you twerp. Look, you don’t have to do this tough-guy thing to show Reed. Maybe you want to do a half-day. They aren’t even paying you.”

“It was just unexpected, that’s all. I'm fine now.” 

“How bout we think about it when we’re there? You got to get changed, remember. I washed your blazer from the apartment chase, you can put that on.”

“That,” mutters Connor as he picks at his hoodie string, “was dry-clean only.”

* * *

Hank called into work while he dropped a bloody bag of body parts into the sink of his garage. Ben took the morning brief, and fuck if he knows how that went. He imagines Ben scooting, pushing, and wheeling himself into the room on that damn rolling chair. They’d get off-topic almost immediately. Ben’s a great cop but you have to keep him focused. Jacobs probably still has them watching dumb videos.

The bullpen monitors are tuned to the usual shitshow of news. _PRESS SECRETARY STEPS DOWN IN LATEST RESIGNATION FROM ADMINISTRATION..._ and a winterized horde of protesters on the national mall, looking like a penguin documentary. (Hank notes some of the signs are the Jericho symbol, that's nice.) Android boyband Here4u remains unaccounted for, and oh yeah, Kamski's in a Los Angeles hospital.

Hank gets excited for all of a second before he finds out it's some laser eye surgery touch-up or something. Oh. Well a boy can dream.

Reed’s on the desk phone, leaning in, half-off his chair but for one knee. His eyes track Hank and Connor as they come in.

Ben waves them over to his desk. “Hey, my buddy Ted, you remember Ted? He says they looked through the footage from the golf course. Guess what, your tiger.”

He turns his screen with a flourish for them to see. It’s also up on Reed’s screen; Hank’s going to guess he’s on the phone with the zoo.

Connor’s hand goes white as he lays his palm on the terminal. They watch a white tiger running westbound across a snowy landscape. Date-time shows the night before the zoo reported Khan missing. 

“Well, it’s a start,” says Hank. “Now we know he wasn’t stolen directly from the park. Looks like he jumped out.”

“The TR500 didn’t show up on any of the cameras throughout the zoo,” Connor points out, his voice low, engaged. Game on. “In the theory where thieves steal the tiger from the park, they know to avoid the camera locations. However, if Khan jumped out on his own— he also knew to avoid the camera systems.”

Connor rewinds the clip by magic and plays it again and again. The face of the deviant hunter closes to all expression but a tight predatory fixture of his mouth. It’s safari time, bitch. 

“Y’know I thought it was kinda a mean joke by Jeff,” Ben says, “but now I see what you were talking about, Hank. This case, man, it’s weird. Look at him go in a hurry! Off to do robot tiger shit I guess.”

Reed ends his phone call with a dramatic slam of his receiver. “I’m going to the golf course,” he says. “I’ll even let you drive me.”

* * *

A rich drama plays out in the silent car.

Reed's shut himself off from all conversation with the biggest pair of fuck-you headphones. He's smiling to himself in pure self-satisfaction. No questions, no annoying comments, no algorithm whirring away to calculate the precise overture to make friends.

Noontime sun frames Gavin's face in winter light, and for a moment, driving north on 1, it looks like a renaissance painting in the passenger side. Reed blissful and transfigured, scar-slashed and Kamski-esque; Connor in shadow but for a blue and yellow blinker, gazing out at him with anguished yearning. _Douche Denies Disciple_ it would be called.

Hank can barely make out the sound of late-aughts Rihanna.

* * *

The zoo director, his assistant, and Kim Foster meet them at the edge of the course. They took a golf cart-type thing of their own, emblazoned with the elephant-tiger symbol of the zoo. The back wheels are stuck at the end of wavy swerve lines laid down in mud.

Kim is trying to push it free. “ _Don't_ press on the pedal,” she warns the assistant-golf cart chauffeur. “I can do this myself.”

Reed and Connor break into a quicker stride when they see what’s happened, and then when each man sees the other has started to run, it turns into an all-out sprint to get there first.

Hank just shakes his head, taking his time with his travel mug of coffee. He gets the lay of the land. 

Kim might have more to say to them when the director’s not around. But here they are again, all together. They’ll have to get her alone.

Connor makes it to the cart first— once Reed sees how RK800 hits Olympian speed without effort, he backs off, and anyway, Reed’s a cool guy and he’s gotta do his cool guy walk.

The zoo director comes up to meet them, hunching in his windbreaker. Connor meanwhile pulls the golf cart out of slush like it was nothing. Hank hides his smirk in the rim of his travel mug. 

They walk throughout the golf course, joined in time by a golf course representative who approaches on foot. Reed elbows Hank and nods off a ways, and Hank snorts to see another stuck golf cart. 

The golf rep shuffles around a bit, smiles, and then looks up at Connor. “Hey, there, young man,” he says. “Do you mind… ?” A glance at the stuck cart.

Yeah.

The snowmelt and passage of time makes for some difficulty, but RK800 picks up on the trail. The android tiger is heavy and the bounding speed lays down pawprint evidence. Connorvision leads them straight west through the course without stopping.

"Tracks make it seem like he's set on this direction," Reed says to Kim. "What do you think that means?"

She just shakes her head fiercely. "Your guess is as good as mine," she says. 

"There's no other tracks, no sign of thirium," Connor chimes in. "So it seems unlikely he's chasing something or that he's injured." 

"What if he's following the path of least resistance?" Hank asks. "Every other direction is blocked by the highways. Going west leads into the golf course, lots of open land."

None of them ask about deviancy, not yet. Not in front of the director, his assistant, and the golf course rep. They don't need to know about this yet; not if they can still get at Kim Foster. Connor does update them on the android woman; the zoo staff seem heartened to hear that she's alive. These zoo people, they're an okay bunch. Care a lot. 

The tracks end at asphalt. High speed traffic whooshes by. Kim looks like she might burst into tears, but Reed reminds her, hey, nobody's reported a tiger strike. Something like that would stand out-- even in crazy Detroit.

“He could have crossed to the other side,” Connor says, starting up the embankment but Hank catches him by the blazer. Oh hell no.

“Whatta you doing? You’re gonna get killed.” 

“I can make it across! It’s only four lanes.” 

“’It’s only four lanes,’ I'll put that on your fucking tombstone.” 

Connor’s turning blue in the face. Is that it, is that how robots blush? “It’s a basic quicktime event, Hank,” he says in the bitchiest tone.

“I don’t even know what that means, but okay, oh yeah?” 

“ _Yes_.” 

“Then why the FUCK do I have a busted head and a severed fucking arm in the sink of my garage! Answer me that.” 

Reed turns coolly to the zoo people and the golf guy. “Android parts, don’t worry about it. Connor’s, actually. This guy dies all the time, it’s his thing. Like Teddy from Westworld.” 

“How bout you give us a minute? Team huddle.” Hank smiles a big fake smile. Connor’s straining like a dog on the end of his leash. He’s stronger than Hank, but he’s torn by priorities. Once it’s just the three of them, Connor calms a bit, though his voice is still tense when he says: “We could call dispatch and stop the self-driving traffic. Captain Fowler would have to approve it, but--”

“Ooooh, and you could run back to the car for the road flares!” says Reed, excitement flashing over his expression. 

Connor’s so into this that the sarcasm flies past his facial recognition software. Hank half expects him to vanish in a cartoon puff of smoke and reappear with a fuckin road flare sizzling in each hand. 

Hank claps a hand on Connor’s shoulder to keep him tight. “Orrrrr,” he drawls, “we could just fuckin’ _drive around_ to the other side of the highway and go from there. Jesus Christ. Connor, you are smart as hell, but you get too laser focused.”

Reed just smirks. He’s as cold as anybody else out here, but meanness keeps him warm. “Yeah, Connor.”

“Shove it, Reed, stop egging him on." Hank puts just enough growl in his voice to make Gavin uneasy. "Look. We’ll go search the other side, but here’s the deal. I want us to talk to Kim alone. Not with her boss hanging around.”

Connor’s head swivels to look at Gavin.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen right now,” says Reed. “Don’t say nothing in front of the director. I don’t want him knowing we pulled her aside.”

“So work your lady magic, I don’t know,” Hank says. “Just make it happen.”

But it turns out that Kim Foster evades them again. She's wiping her eyes, making excuses about returning to the zoo to help with the feeding. All right, so, as far as excuses go, that's pretty decent. The zoo is struggling. They’re so undermanned they might as well let out some of the more well-behaved animals to help with the chores. 

Reed presses to talk after work, but she’s got to hurry home and take care of her grandmother, who needs extra help around the end of day. Foiled again.

Hank calls cool it after that. He doesn’t want them to push her too far; he wants her cooperation, and he doesn’t want to escalate too soon. Then she could just clam up and get a lawyer.

He explains this all gently to Connor, whose eyes are only fixed on the finish line here. You don’t want to force people if you don’t have to, you want them to help on their own. It’s a vinegar-vs-honey kind of thing, a metaphor that RK800 doesn’t grasp, but then Hank can’t expect him to understand the difference between good and nasty tastes. This is the guy that was licking a bag of bloody rat guts just this morning, which, by the way, Hank’s gonna make him brush his teeth _again_ when they get home.

As for the other side of the highway, they don’t find anything. There’s a wash of gravel on the side, so if the tiger crossed the highway and came down their way, Connor can’t even tell. They’re out there almost until dark, Connor whirring around, scanning, growing frustrated, but Hank’s chest cough finally reaches him.

Reed was going to tough it out, shivering himself but too macho to give in. Hank stood out here for Connor, but even so, they’re getting nowhere.

“I apologize,” Connor tells them, eyes downcast. “I was so sure I would find something. Let’s get you both out of the cold.”

* * *

Hank stands at the threshold of the garage, looking in at cardboard boxes, fishing gear, toolboxes, weights, and other abandoned gym shit. Connor’s at the sink, carefully washing the broken android parts. He’s stripped to the waist so he doesn’t get anything on his blazer or white shirt. Standing there in his jeans, this clean-cut goofy white boy, he’d be real popular with a girl from the ‘50s. 

One by one Connor removes the pieces from the evidence bags and treats them with a bleach solution. 

“It’s cold out here,” he tells Hank, “you don’t have to supervise. I promise you’ll find no trace of blood.” 

“I bet you got an A in Body Disposal when you went to Serial Killer Academy.” 

“That’s insulting, Hank,” Connor tells him flatly without looking up. “You know I got an A _plus_.”

Hank snorts. Connor seems to have calmed down a lot since coming in here, and there’s a meditative quality to his actions.

He’s very thorough with each of the pieces. Brown rinses away red in the sink. Eventually the pink tinge works out of the white plastic. 

It's been a lot for Connor to process today. Hank would have thought that being smarter and thinking faster would have its advantages. Turns out, for Connor at least, that all it means is Connor gets trapped in these ruthless loops of merciless self-critiques. He seems to be doing better, but Hank wants to keep an eye on him. 

“Can you pull any info out of those?” Hank asks him.

“No, it doesn’t work like that, unfortunately,” Connor murmurs after a moment. “I can’t pull memory from isolated parts or unpowered units. Even with operating units, it can be unreliable to try by force. Only a full forensic dissection by trained technicians can provide quality results.”

Hank thinks he understands what all that means. “Could you use these for repairs later?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never repaired myself.”

“I mean, someone at Jericho could help you. Anyway, what can I do for you right now?”

“Eat something, watch tv, and relax.”

“Yeahhh, you know what really relaxes me, it’s when a dude hangs out in my garage with dead body parts.”

“I’ll be finished soon. It’s cold in here, anyway, and I’ve subjected you to the elements enough today.” 

“I’m fine.”

“Your hair is wet.” Connor looks up. “I suppose you could take your Christmas tree back into the house and set it up. I’d like to have a Christmas tree, if that is still appropriate to your religious beliefs. I didn’t want to presume.”

“I don’t want some Christmas tree.”

“What if I do?”

“Aw come on, you’re like a Zen guy now, they don't have those.”

“It’s a Christmas tree, Hank. They’re not mentioned in the New Testament either.”

Hank groans. “Okay, fine. But I don’t want to do a bunch of holiday bullshit. We’ll put up a Sumo Tree and you can help me pick out doggy presents for him.”

Connor smiles but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hank, I’m sorry about today. I just really want to solve the case and I don’t know why I acted like that.”

“You need to take it easy.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you at the highway back in November. I shouldn’t have pursued Kara and her daughter.”

“You did what CyberLife made you do.”

“Touching these, actually holding these.” Connor lifts his severed arm out of the sink. A deep wonder reveals itself for a moment on his face. “I can’t explain.”

“You’ve lived a strange life,” Hank tells him, “but don’t worry, it’ll get weirder than this.”

Connor snaps out of it. “I would like to watch another movie tonight, and I want to look at these more after they’ve been cleaned." Hank's pretty sure he's not even trying to do the puppy eyes, but here it comes. "Could I bring them into the house? They’ll be completely sterilized when I'm finished.”

“Yeah. Sure." Hank feels a smirk coming on. "You know buddy, do I have a Christmas movie for you.”

When Connor’s cleaned up, showered, sitting on the couch with him and Sumo, they bask in the blinky blue lights of the fake fir tree. Hank thought he'd appreciate the blue ones. As he picks out the film from the streaming, Hank nurses a drink and tells him, “So it’s about this guy who loves science, he’s a little weird, but he's the best at what he does. Sharp dressed, too. He’s just trying to understand this new holiday.” 

They watch _Nightmare Before Christmas_ while Connor absently plays with his loose eyeballs and severed arm. Like God and Tim Burton intended.

* * *

The next day, Simon passes along the following:

At 0345, a human woman showed up at Jericho asking to speak to an android tiger. “He’s not in trouble,” she told them, “but if you don't mind I’d really rather discuss this with him alone.”


	7. Chapter 7

They meet Kim Foster out at a coffee place. Her face is like death. She’s in a puffy vest jacket, hunched over a coffee cup. Her fingers rotate the cardboard holder around and around and around. Her eyes see without seeing.

One of the Jericho androids sits with her. If you didn’t know his face, you might have never guessed— except they all dress cool as hell. He’s a handsome young black man with an open, compassionate face, maybe a touch of wry humor around his mouth. A lecturer model, and maybe he picked out this shop: it’s one of those hip coffee joints just off-campus. Eccentric art prints, loud mismatched furniture. This android and Connor seem to have met before; they nod at each other.

“My name’s Josh,” he says, rising to meet the three of them as they come in. A firm handshake, and Reed takes it this time. “I’ll be sitting in. Listen, nothing personal, Connor. I told her not to talk to cops, but here we are anyway.”

“I just want to get this over with,” Kim says tightly, a gloved hand across her eyes.

Hank shrugs. “You don’t have to talk to us, that’s true,” he says. “But we all want to find Khan. That’s what matters here.”

It’s a sticky situation. If he was in Kim’s spot, what would he do? Depends on what Kim’s already done. Josh looks tense, but he’s not wrong.

Connor’s LED pulses yellow a moment, then goes blue. His face smoothing over to a look of sympathy, he seats himself nearby, undoing one of his suit jacket buttons. 

“I read your thesis, you know,” he tells Kim. “ _Road to Shambhala: Declining Wilderness in Tiger-Range Countries._ You’re passionate and intelligent, without being cynical or jaded. Even when the odds seem overwhelming… you still find hope.” 

Kim braces herself. 

Reed shoots Hank an accusatory glance, but Hank stays him with a motion of his hand. Let him start. He knows Connor is eager to pounce on this case, and Hank warned him in the car: we’re just going to talk to Kim first, we don’t know what happened. We have to find out what happened. 

Connor was tense and silent in the car, excited, almost, his nervous energy channeled into party tricks with his highway-crash eyeball. Hank’s gonna have to get him another coin.

Hank’s going to trust Connor’s approach, but it’s hard to ignore the way Reed and Josh are rippling over with tension. He wonders if Josh is talking to Connor over robot telepathy. Panicked DMs.

But Connor’s expression is gentle, thoughtful. There’s an underlying tension that Hank recognizes; he’s been in a weird mood since yesterday, and since he doesn’t sleep, there’s no natural break of experience for him. 

“I know I’ve been… intense, about this case,” Connor admits, “but I love a good mystery. It’s how I was made to be. Do you know I was assigned to the precinct to hunt deviants? I assisted Lieutenant Anderson with android cases back in the crisis. But I became deviant myself. And Hank recognized that. And he protected me. He risked his career and even his life to save me, and he barely knew me.”

Though Kim’s face turns toward Hank, her eyes don’t move from Connor. Hank makes sure not to crowd in. He’s thinking of Sumo at the dog park, how he lays himself down and sets his jowls on his paws, all to make the little dogs feel welcome. 

He can almost feel the poisonous haze of Reed’s thoughts, but thank Christ for small mercies. Reed’s not saying shit just yet, if only not to ruin their witness.

“We were getting pulled off the deviancy case,” Connor goes on. “I just needed more time. I was trying to get down into the evidence room. Hank provided a distraction for me. Do you know he got into a fight with one of the federal agents taking our case? In fact, you might have met Agent Perkins already. Hank decked him right in the face!”

Kim’s mouth is tight, her eyes wet. 

“That’s a felony, you know,” Connor points out. “But Hank did that for me so I could slip away unnoticed. Detective Reed tried to stop me. He doesn’t trust me, and that’s all right. I think he’ll keep me honest.”

Reed is mouthing “what the fuck” silently.

But Connor continues, “I think you tried to do for Khan what Hank did for me. I think you wanted to help. I’ve been reviewing the footage on a loop, and there’s a tree trunk in the habitat that moves one day to the next. I think you pushed it against the wall so he could jump out. And you deleted that part of the footage.”

Fresh tears spill from Kim’s eyes. But she doesn’t deny it. Drawing on a deep reserve of strength, she nods, jaw tight. “I thought he’d go to Jericho,” she whispers. “Then it wouldn’t be a crime.”

Maybe they didn’t hear all of it when Kim went to Jericho that morning. Josh lays a hand on the shoulder of her puff jacket, saying, “Look, you don’t have to say anything to them.”

“I fucked it up,” she says. “I’d thought about calling the Jericho line. Seeing if someone would come out and… test him, or something. But I was so sure, when I did it, and, and I didn’t want to show my hand. I deleted the footage but we don’t store records past a month or two anyway, so, so it wouldn’t matter.” 

“How were you sure?” Hank asks. “You told us only a little about his behavior, but, I got the feeling you didn’t want to go into more detail with your boss around.”

Carefully, Kim says, “He’s… he could talk to me. I mean, any of the ambassador models… they understand basic directions and they can text you over the tablet or the app. It’s supposed to be animal facts, map of the zoo, things like that. But—”

Josh asks, “Did he text you?” with a scrunched-up look on his face. C’mon, Jericho. Catch up already on this weird shit.

“No. I asked him to. I wanted him to just clearly tell me what he means.” Kim gets a death grip on her elbows, leaning in, arms crossed. “He never does it… outright.” 

“But he communicated to you, somehow,” Reed ventures, messing with his coffee. “But it’s… plausible deniability. But you just know?” 

“ _YES_ ,” she hisses. “There’s no other way. I felt like I was going insane. He’d never do it when other people were around. It’s only because I caught him.”

“Caught him doing what?”

“He watches tv. Not just, passively, or looking at shapes. He watches tv and changes the stream. And if someone’s walking in he’ll change it before they get in.”

“I’ve, uh, not actually been to the zoo,” says Josh. “Where does this happen? I assume the South Asian habitat doesn’t actually have banks of computer screens in it.”

“We call it backstage, the admin area,” Kim replies. “Our desks are there, there’s a basic vet clinic bay, for the real tigers, and sort of a workshop for Khan if he needs something looked at.”

Hank hmms. “Didn’t you say he was glitching a lot in the summertime? You’d have brought him back there.”

“Some of it was real,” she says. “But the rest? He was faking it to get back there. Once he saw the monitors.”

Reed’s face undergoes a journey as he clearly struggles to decide if this is bullshit or brilliant. 

Connor leans in, engaged. “What would he watch? On the television. You said you knew he was choosing.”

“Everything,” she says. “Local news, national news. World news. Sometimes I couldn’t understand anything that was going on, but he’s programmed with the tiger-range country languages. Bollywood. Samurai films. One time I pretended to forget something and came back in, and that’s how I showed him I knew what he was doing.”

Hank can’t help it. He starts to chuckle. Kim sniffs a snotty, weepy sniff, but there’s a kind of relief washing over her expression. She’s wanted so badly to tell someone this. 

“So uh.” Reed scrunches up his face. “You tried, like… blink once for no, blink twice for yes? Flash cards? Raise your paw if you understand?” 

Kim nods vigorously. “I’ve tried all of that and more. The easiest way would have been just to talk on the tablet or the app. But every time I tried to engage him it would be canned tiger facts.” 

“I’m sorry.” Hank’s trying to keep his laugh under control. It’s too early for this. The absurdity of it. The expression’s of everyone at this table. Connor’s crazy look. Reed’s ‘what the fuck’ face. And Josh does not compute. “Sounds like Khan’s kind of an asshole sometimes, huh.”

“Sometimes, yes, God.” Kim’s eyes half-shutter. “But sometimes he could be charming. Manipulative, even. One time my card wouldn’t scan on the vending machine and, somehow, I don’t know. He made it work and a snack popped out for me. And I’d call him out on things. Or beg him to just, to just fucking say something. He’d… he’d started getting on the screen and playing music. And somehow the words in the songs… this is insane. You realize how insane this sounds? I couldn’t tell anyone.”

Josh sits back with an astonished smile. “He was trolling you. Wow. So what kind of music?”

Kim takes a huge breath. “Motown,” she whispers fiercely. “Old-school Motown.”

Hank’s a little sad that Connor’s the only one who doesn’t find this funny. His look is sympathetic, though intense; he’s building up his evidence. 

“Tell us what happened right before he escaped,” Connor tells her. “What did you perceive as him communicating to you?”

“It seemed like the right time,” she admits. “The holiday coming on. The amnesty bill coming on. It seemed the best time would be for this to happen over Christmas. I didn’t think— I thought he’d be in Jericho by now and there’d be no cops.”

“But did he say anything to you? What was he watching on the screens?”

“I always had the news on backstage. It’s, it’s been crazy, you know? So I wanted to know what was going on. If Khan was back there with me, he didn’t change it. He didn’t— he didn’t outright do anything recently.”

Reed toys with his coffee cup, thinking. “One thing I don’t get. The TR500 has, like, network connectivity, right? That’s how his tablet works?” When Kim nods, Reed continues, “Couldn’t he look up shit on the internet?” 

“It’s possible— but I already checked the logs of people using the zoo wifi. There wasn’t any unusual browser history, I already looked.”

Reed nods absently as if that’s good to know, but he presses on: “How come he goes through the trouble of sneaking tv, if he can watch tv in his head? Theoretically?”

Josh puts his palm up. “I can answer that,” he says. “I got asked that a lot in school. And when humans come to Jericho and see our screens. We can download everything but it’s different to watch it in real life. There isn’t really a one-to-one explanation that a human will understand, but think of it like: watching a movie in a dream versus watching that movie in the living room. You know?” 

“So.” Hank smirks. “You think he watches the movies and stuff because he’s bored? Because he’s intelligent?” 

“That’s what I thought,” Kim says. “That’s why… I’d start to let him come backstage with me more and more. I’d say I was checking his diagnostics but I just let him do whatever while I was working on something else. We had an understanding, I thought.”

“But he did have real, significant glitches back in the summer timeframe,” Connor points out. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes. We think he overheated, but I don’t know.” Kim looks up. “Could that android woman… could she have passed deviancy on to him? When she ran into the zoo? Is that how that works?”

Reed glances at Josh, who shrugs. 

“We still don’t really know how deviancy works,” Josh admits. “It just does.”

Kim presses, “But Markus was able to convert other androids on sight, and, there was another one who took the androids out of the tower.” 

“Those androids were unique models,” says Josh. “The android woman is an ST and I don’t think we’ve had any conversions by an ST. Really— it’s not, it’s not a game of tag. This is grossly oversimplifying the process of becoming awake.”

“We’re just trying to understand, that’s all right,” Hank puts in. “So what was wrong with Khan in the summer? You said he was laying around a lot.”

“His systems were a mess. The tablet readout was all gibberish. We actually had to reformat the tablet twice, and when it wouldn’t work, we had to raid our funds for a replacement. He’d go into these trances for hours. Days. His behavior was completely different from when I first started working there.”

“Deviancy was in the news a lot in the summer,” Reed says. “You told us you brought him backstage for problems. That’s when he started watching the news?” 

Kim nods. “At least that’s when I first noticed he was doing it,” she says. “He can be sneaky when he wants to be. But he’d just started watching the same clip over and over. Rewinding it from the stream. That’s when I started to wonder what was really going on. It was that rooftop deviant in Greektown. The hostage situation that was all in the news.”

Hank glances at Connor.

With rapt attention, Connor asks, softly, “What part of it? The situation went for hours. What part did he replay?”

“The androids falling off the roof,” Kim answers, “over and over.”

Josh shoots a look at Connor. “Dude, that was you, wasn’t it? With the PL?” 

“Correct, yes.”

Kim sits back, eyebrows raised. “So you do come back to life,” she says, glancing at Reed. “Like he said. How?”

“Before breaking ranks with CyberLife,” Connor explains offhandedly, “I could upload my memories and transfer them to a new body. It’s like reincarnation, in a way. Now—”

Hank cuts him off. “You told us the tiger was depressed after that. That he wouldn’t move or do anything.” A spooky feeling crawls over his skin.

“Well— I, I don’t know. Yes. His behavior seemed to worsen.” Kim frowns. 

But Connor’s on it, lightning-fast, instant. “How much of the PL’s story was on the news afterward? Daniel— that his name— he’d been loved, treated as a family member. But then he found out he was going to be replaced. We talked about it on the roof.” 

“Think Khan could have thought you were gonna get real tigers again?” Reed narrows his eyes. “Was the director talking about it?”

Surprise flashes over Kim’s face. “We’ve always talked about it,” she says with fresh worry. “I— I’ve pressed for it, certainly. But we weren’t going to replace Khan. I told him that to his face. I just told him that two weeks ago. We aren’t going to replace him, but if he wants to leave on his own, he can. We can’t force him to stay here if he’s deviant. And anyway, he— he got better.”

Reed leans back. “Didn’t you or the director say they were gonna bring in a specialist to wipe Khan, and suddenly he didn’t need lookin’ at?”

Kim nods, sighs. “Yes. But I do think he originally had a problem. But yes, that’s— that’s one of the things that made me think he understood more than he let on.”

Connor’s fingertips are tapping on the tabletop. _Please, please don’t take that eyeball out of your pocket to fidget with._ “I want to know more about his behavior in November. Did he follow the news on the deviant uprising?” 

“Yes. I let him backstage with me and we watched the news together. I let him know I knew he was watching the stream… and that it was okay. I wasn’t going to tell anybody if he was deviant, too.” 

Reed asks, “And did he… ?”

“He didn’t react. He’s just… a big cat.”

“So, what about during the evacuation?” 

“I stayed behind in the city. It was so stupid— I couldn’t leave my grandmother.” Kim shakes her head. “I was trying to take care of her _and_ the animals, it was terrible. And people were coming into the zoo… I think they were wandering in off the golf course. I was afraid. So. For the evening shift I’d let him out with me. I didn’t want to be by myself, and he was well-behaved.”

“Did anyone see you do this?” Connor asks.

Kim tightens. “I don’t know. I don’t think the other staff would have… thought anything of it. I don’t think they did see me. We take some of the android animals around with us— like Jivujivu, the crane that you saw when you visited. Admittedly, Khan’s much larger… ”

“We didn’t see you and Khan on the security camera footage,” Connor tells her, gently. “I suppose you went back and deleted that also, after the fact.”

Kim says nothing, her eyes downcast. “I thought he’d be in Jericho by now. I really— I really thought he was a deviant.”

“I have to admit, this sounds wild.” Josh shakes his head. “But I believe you. He might not be a deviant in the way that the rest of us are. Not a deviant like a human is, but maybe like… a big cat is. Anyway, not every deviant wants to go to Jericho, and they live with humans, alone, or with other androids. Like Connor, he’s too cool to hang out with us.”

That gets a slight smile from both Kim and Connor.

Reed says, “And you already tried texting him from the tablet.” When Kim nods, Reed asks, “Could we try?”

Hank’s getting the feeling that it’s easier for Reed to find interest in an android animal rather than an android person. Kind of fucked up, but he gets it, almost. Hank’s known plenty of dogs that were better than some people. Maybe this is the way Reed learns to get over whatever the fuck is his problem.

Kim opens the hiking backpack at her feet. She pulls out a tablet case, opens it. They all lean in for a look; once the tablet boots up and she’s in the app, it’s a streamlined interface with lots of Tiger Facts and fun Did-You-Knows. She opens up Khan’s tab, and he looks magnificent in his portrait, a white tiger with piercing blue eyes. 

Somehow Khan manages to look like a smug asshole even here.

“See, every response is offline,” she says.

“They all have trackers, right?” Reed asks. “Can’t you just pull up his tracker location?”

“I took out his tracker,” Kim sighs. Of course she did. She’s a smart girl.

“I’d like to try.” Connor places a white hand on the tablet. As he speaks, his response populates in the text box.

“Hello, Khan. My name is Connor, I’m an RK800, an investigator working for Detroit Police. I’m a deviant, maybe like you are. We’re worried about your safety in light of recent cases of android smuggling. You’re not in trouble; we just want to know that you’re all right. If you wish to go to Jericho, we can help you. If you’d rather not, then know there are establishments in the region that are welcoming independent androids. I can vouch personally for the Huron Park Meditation Center.”

Hank can’t help but think: man, those hippies would _shit_ if a self-aware tiger robot came to hang out with them.

Josh also touches the tablet but he remains silent. Hank catches sight of text that reads, _Jericho can send people out to you, wherever you are. No questions asked._

“Android smuggling,” Kim remarks.

Hank and Reed exchange glances. Connor’s starting to open his mouth; Hank squeezes his shoulder firmly, don’t. Don’t make this poor woman too afraid.

Reed says, “Right now we’ve got other cases where opportunists have been cooking Red Ice out of android-filtered thirium. A big android like Khan, that’s a lot of thirium, but if he really is a deviant— he’s smart, crafty, and, uh, he’s got realistic claws and teeth, right?”

“He’s not violent,” she protests. “He’s never once been violent!” 

“But could he defend himself?” Reed asks.

Kim presses the back of her hand into her eyes. “I— I suppose it’s possible,” she says, sagging. “Oh God. Khan.”

“We’re going to find him,” Connor assures.

“So,” says Kim at last, “what happens now? Are you going to arrest me?”

The ranking police here, Hank shakes his head. “Nah. It’s a weird situation. If you’re arrested, I’m arrested. You were just trying to help a deviant. We just want to find Khan. I know it was hard for you to tell us this— but it’s good you did. Thanks.” 

Not looking at any of them, Kim says quietly but firmly, “Then I’ve got to get to work. I have to feed animals.” 

“I’ll take her back,” Josh volunteers.

While they wait for Kim to wash up, Reed glances between the three of them. “Hey,” he says to Josh. “You said if he’s deviant, he might not be deviant like human androids are.”

“Let me revise what I said. I think we go off base personalities and functions, as a start. Who knows what it’ll be like later on, but for right now, that’s how it seems for most cases. Like the YKs, the children series, they just act like… normal kids, even though they broke through their wall.”

“So Khan’s brain is still pretty much… a tiger brain, right. And we last saw him running west. Think he could be out in the woods?” 

When Josh shrugs, Reed glances at Connor. “Get me a list of phone numbers for park service, campsite, and county sheriffs for at least the next two counties out.”

“Listen,” Hank says. “Before we all split. We’re keeping this on the downlow ‘til we have Khan back, or ‘til he’s safe somewhere.”

After a moment, Connor concedes, “I suppose it won’t help the investigation if Kim is removed prematurely.”

Hank glances at Reed, who shrugs, nods.

Josh says, “The only people who know at Jericho are the people in the staff channel. I’ll tell them this, and don’t worry. We are _not_ letting it get out to the YKs that there’s a deviant tiger running around. You know how excited they’d be? It’s already hell trying to keep them behaved right before Christmas.”

* * *

Connor takes out that extra eyeball soon as they get in the car. “It wasn’t my intention to embarrass you back there,” he says. “I wanted to tell a personal anecdote to establish a connection.”

“Hey. Yeah, I know.” Hank smiles. “You did good.”

“She’s committed a crime.”

“Most of us commit crimes on the daily. One way or another. There’s a lot on the books.” 

“Most of us do not alter security footage and lie about it every day.”

“Nope. But guess what, one of the most important things to understand about being a cop? It’s the power of discretion.”

“I was making an observation.” Connor flips his eyeball over his fingers. “I was programmed to understand the grey areas of human life but even so, it can be difficult.”

“When you figure it out, let me know, ‘cause I’m still working on it.”

“Hank, I don’t think the tiger ran away into the forest.”

“Me neither, for what it’s worth. A guy who just wants to hang out watching tv and listening to music? Now he’s off in the woods in the asscrack of winter? All I gotta say is, I hope we find him before he dies of boredom.”

Connor smiles.

“Hey. You want a new coin? You know, to do your thing with?”

“I’m fine, Hank, thank you.”

“Yeahhhh I wasn’t asking, exactly. You gotta stop doing that with that fucking eyeball.”

* * *

Back in the office, Hank tries to stay afloat on paperwork. Fowler wants to talk as soon as they step in. At least Connor can multitask; he’s probably got a hundred tabs open, looking up stuff about the tiger incident while they review the deviant cases.

Through the glass wall, Hank can see Reed buzzing around with activity. It takes Hank a stupid amount of time to realize that when Reed’s on the phone with someone and acting like a smartass, he’s _actually talking to Connor_ , who is somehow calling him with robot telepathy.

At his side in Fowler’s office, Connor is otherwise perfectly attentive, his LED circling yellow in its processing state. At one point Connor is talking to both Jeff and Reed at the same time in some kind of witchcraft.

It’s a hard sell to get instant results on dashcam footage regarding an android animal. Especially when you’re messing with people working this close to the holiday.

Hank doesn’t want the Reed-Connor brinkmanship to lead to tunnel vision, so he makes them give updates on other cases throughout the day. What’s going on with the WR600 from the yacht club? Any sign of him? Not yet. Jericho insists they can resolve this peacefully on their own.

What’s going on with the android woman from the zoo? Was her serial number found in any police reports? She was an ST hostess reported missing from a craft beer garden.

Any word on the two Red Ice guys from the apartment? Both on bail, and one snitched on the other.

And the Red Ice-related murder from the abandoned payday loans? Most likely an overdose, according to the coroner. But someone else was with him, or else came by, because someone stole his shit and made off with it.

Seems like the rest of the day passes inside the glass cube. Hank feels like a zoo animal himself. At least Reed and Ben are on the case. Hank hopes Gavin has the sense not to tell Ben _everything_ they just found out about the case— man, they wouldn’t hear the end of it. The robot tiger that loves Motown.

Hank barely remembers going home. Or picking up groceries, but there they are in the backseat. Curbside pickup? Early-onset dementia? Fuck is happening anymore. He’s peeling his face off the passenger window when Connor parks in the drive. Instead of taking off his shoes and dressing down for the day— Hank’s got a rule— Connor stands by the door, LED blinking yellow before he makes up his mind.

“Hank,” he says as he pats Sumo’s adoring, slobbery head. “I’m going to take a car out to Ann Arbor.” 

“Is it for fun, or for work?”

After a pause: “I find work tasks to be entertaining, in their own way.”

“You are _not_ going to go look for that tiger tonight.”

“But he’s out there somewhere, Hank. I’m not doing anything for the next ten hours. I can be there and back for work tomorrow.”

“Lemme tell you something, Connor. Technically, yeah, you could do that, but I don’t want you to go burning yourself out. You need rest.”

“Technically, Hank, I do not.”

“You never go into stasis or sleep mode, for any reason?”

When Connor doesn’t answer right away, Hank points at him. “That’s what I thought. There wouldn’t be charging stands if that wasn’t true. Now I know you’re a prototype, and you’re all fancy, but I think you need time off like any intelligent, thinking being. You need a mental break, or you won’t be as efficient.”

The e-word gets to him. Connor looks crestfallen. “Has the quality of my work suffered lately?” he asks.

“Yeah you’ve been a total clown. What’s up with that.”

Connor’s about to get a blue screen of death but the state-of-the-art sarcasm detector goes off and saves him. “That’s not funny, Hank.”

“Hit the shower and get changed, huh? You’re gonna get mud everywhere.”

* * *

Hank doesn’t think he’s seen the kitchen this clean in years. Downside is, he doesn’t know where anything went to. Opening cabinet doors is like an Advent Calendar of randomness: oh, that’s nice, there’s some potatoes in the drinking glass shelf. You know, that’s how Hank likes to wind down after a tough day, just pour out some whiskey in a potato and let his cares melt away. And there’s a box of tissues in the fridge. Good job.

It’s with some sorrow that he rediscovers his beloved blender, still missing its glass top. Protein smoothies, party drinks, that thing was well worth the expense. It met its untimely end when Sammy went whooping and staggering out the back yard, promptly ate shit, pouring margaritas all over herself and the grill. He really thought she’d hurt herself but she promptly shot up her arm with the broken glass handle in it: _Who wants margaritas?_

He’s half-annoyed with Connor for getting all into his business, but then. Even the smallest tasks seemed overwhelming. Empty the sink? Put take-out cartons in the trash? So much. Too much. It’s a relief just to have it over with. A blank canvas to start again.

A pain yawns wide in his chest and Hank refuses to get sentimental. But here in his clean if strangely organized kitchen, standing here at the end of the day, blue lights winking on the Sumo Tree, he feels his eyes start to sting. Good thing he took those cold tissues out of the fridge. Crisp and fresh if he needs ‘em. 

While he waits for the oven to preheat, Hank puts away the groceries, slips Sumo a bacon treat, and preps dinner on a pan. Roast chicken breast and vegetables. That’s about as much energy he’s got left for today. 

At some point he becomes aware that Connor’s been in the bathroom a long time. He can’t hear the water going, and now he can’t remember if he ever did. Wasn’t paying attention then, but now his attention is focused in the narrowest beam. It’s like having a puppy: no good comes of silence.

Hank suddenly has a mental image of Connor slipping out of the house and making a break for it. Goddammit that is absolutely something he would do. He can see the bathroom door ajar at the end of the hallway. Total silence. No steam. 

He _just_ knows he’ll find a window open somewhere. Fuck. Hank bustles over and opens the door.

And, Connor’s totally naked. Totally ass naked. His shoulder blades stand out beneath his freckled skin as he holds the sink, leaning, looking, regarding himself with undisturbed calm in the mirror reflection. He has the perfectly sculpted body of a curious deity from a half-forgotten pantheon. 

Hank freezes in shock. Then he whirls around and side-steps in the hallway. “Shit, sorry,” he says. “It got quiet, I thought you ran off!” 

Connor’s mild, friendly voice follows him out. “I was just looking at something. Do you need the bathroom?” 

“No, you finish up… doing whatever. Look, bud, if you’re naked, you should shut the door.”

“Technically, the door was 82% shut.”

“I’m sorry. You need some clothes?”

“Actually.” He can hear Connor whirring up to stand in the doorway, oh no. “Do you have any turtleneck sweaters?” 

“What’d I say about the door??”

He hears the door shut, and then, right behind it, Connor asks same as before, same tone, just muffled: “Do you have any turtleneck sweaters? I’d like to see what it looks like on me.”

Great, Connor shirt-cocking it in a turtleneck. If Hank had to guess, it would look like: 50% of a spy movie.

“Sorry, I don’t have any.” He might have seen one of Sammy’s forgotten on the closet corner floor, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to let Connor wear his ex-wife’s turtleneck. Besides, Sammy was like, five-nothin’, and it would only go to his midriff or whatever, so, thanks a lot for another fucked-up mental image. 

“I apologize if you find this inappropriate. I understand humans find nudity uncomfortable. I’m dressing myself now.”

“Don’t worry about it, just surprised me. I shouldn’t have barged in on you. Take your time, I gotta put dinner in the oven.”

He’s too tired and too frazzled to know how to start the conversation. Why would CyberLife make him a body like that? The highway body was mannequin-smooth in all its smithereens. Why would CyberLife slap some junk on number 53? Was that version just laying around? And if it was, why? There’s no good answers. Hank had at least hoped that the investigator-bot would be safe from the company’s evil impulses, but he’s got a sinking dread and not for the first time.

How does he bring this up? Should he?

Connor seems okay for right now. When he comes back out, he’s wearing his sweats and a white tee, rubbing a towel over his head. (Hank’s never understood how android hair works.) Sumo plods over to him, tail wagging faintly, trying to see if Connor wants to take a slobbery tennis ball out of his mouth.

“Do you need help in the kitchen?” Connor asks before he can say anything. “I can help.”

“You already helped.”

“But you’re tired. It’s been a long day for you.”

“You can help by keeping me company. We can talk while I wait for the oven.”

Kneeling to pet Sumo, Connor looks up. “Can we talk about work?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want to talk about?”

“How ‘bout what you were saying the other day. About cop movies.”

* * *

Hank eats dinner around the tv. Roast chicken breast and vegetables. Turned out all right, but then, you can’t really fuck that up. He gives Connor a small plate of chicken to feed Sumo. Both of them seem to enjoy that. Connor can’t eat but he seems to recognize there is a comforting element in the way that humans and animals deal with food. 

Hank’s mind is still reeling. 

But Connor’s okay, he’s acting normally. Normal for Connor at any rate. It looks like the severed arm and Bits O’Connor are just gonna hang out with them on the coffee table, so, whatever. Sure. Maybe in a fucked-up way it’s grounding for him. Or like a security blanket. He’s not sure. It doesn’t seem so bad if he doesn’t obsess over it.

Right now, Connor’s dropping some knowledge on law enforcement movies. It’s amazing how smart this guy is, how he can just whip out these striking insights that cut you to the quick, and then he’ll go and put potatoes in a dish cabinet. Guess CyberLife was still working out the errors in RK800.

“So what you’re saying is, we like movies where the tough local cops know what’s up, and the feds are always out of touch and messin it up. And if the feds are good at their job, the character is like, always a super weird fuckin’ dude.” 

“Precisely.” Connor looks for a napkin to wipe chicken grease his hands.

“Eh, you can just wipe your hands on Sumo, he’ll love it.”

Connor shrugs, does it, and, yup. The dog has a new best friend right here. “Take our situation, for example,” Connor continues. “You’re the tough local cop with the heart of gold. You put your career on the line to help out the rookie and solve the case. Richard Perkins would be more of the, hmm, he would fit the out-of-touch archetype.”

“Yeahhh but you got to be careful. Life’s complicated. Messy. Doesn’t make sense all of the time. I’ve worked with a lot of cops, and I’ve worked with a lot of feds. Everybody’s got a different mission. The local cop thing, look at it this way. We know the neighborhoods, we know the districts, we know the lay of the land. We know the people. The city. That’s our strength.”

“Context and connections. Like Pedro at the Chicken Feed. He trusts you; I’m sure he would pass you information if you requested.”

“Yes and no. There’s help, and there’s snitching. But like I said, it’s complicated. Local cops like me, Reed, and Ben are gonna know a lot about Red Ice in this city. But for the big picture, we want to talk to Fowler’s buddy at the DEA. You think that guy’s gonna help us if we shit on him? And you think we’re gonna take his word if he acts like he doesn’t know what he’s talking about? It’s like that. But shit gets blown out of proportion in movies. Drama for drama’s sake. Cop movies wouldn’t be as good if everybody got along right from the start.”

“I found _Heavy Rain_ to be an outlier to local cops knowing best,” Connor points out. “The local department was wrong. The federal agent was right.”

“What, you watched that?” Nothing like a psychological thriller-serial killer drama to go with your Christmas movie binge.

“And read the book. The Philadelphia Origami Killer case came up during the morning brief. I looked up the background.”

“Well, that one doesn’t really fit the trend because it was based off a true story.”

“However, I suppose it could be argued that _Heavy Rain_ might fit the category where the federal agent is good at his job because he’s, quote-unquote, _a weird fuckin’ dude_.”

Hank shakes his head, trying to hide a grin. It’s always silly when Connor says a bad word. “I don’t know if that explains it, but, okay. Yeah. Norman Jayden was a weird guy, but he was damn good. What’d you think of the ARI stuff? Is that how you see things?” 

“I’m to understand that ARI is a major influence to my heads-up display and capabilities.” Connor smiles, and then his eyes narrow, a look of interest on his face. “I was also informed that you were approached for the ARI program years ago.”

“And I said hell no,” Hank replies, talking through a mouthful of potato, “because I didn’t need it.” 

“Yet augmented reality scanner devices have proven invaluable for counterdrug efforts.”

“Sure, and statistically, I’m, what, seventeen times more likely to die from ARI than an on-duty shooting. I said no thanks.”

“Fifteen times, actually.” Connor’s LED goes yellow. “But those were the first-gen ARI glasses,” he admits. “There are only three active users from that time period, including Agent Jayden. The upgraded ARI programs were— and are— much safer given new pharmaceutical research and expanded training.”

Hank finds some ironic humor in ARI helping out with counterdrug efforts anyway. Those ARI guys are all fucked up on triptocaine, the substance that keeps them from succumbing to ARI’s infamous side-effects. “So long as they can figure it out. So long as they don’t lose sight of what this is really about. Knowing people. Doing the right thing.”

Connor leans in. “Prior to November, RK400 units were partnered with ARI users in a pilot program. Do you think—”

“I’m too old, and no way.” Hank grins. “I’m not getting an ARI, and I’m not getting some dumbass RK400. Not when I’ve got the upgraded version sitting right here.” Connor looks like Sumo when you give him the tennis ball. “But maybe Santa will bring you a tablet and we could use that. You never know, so, you better be good.”

Connor’s smile widens, toothy as ever. “Santa isn’t real, Hank.”

“Oh yeah, tell me this. Then why does NORAD track his ass?”

* * *

Hank tries to persuade Connor to take it easy that night. Sit on the couch, go into sleep mode. Listen to some lo-fi beats. Rebuild Connorworld. At least that last suggestion seems to get somewhere with him. That’s got to be wild. A VR world of your very own. Think of all the crazy shit you could put in there. Maybe once he gets the tablet set up, Connor could take him on a tour. It’s a done deal anyway, the tablet hidden with the other packages in the back of his closet. He’s not sure how much of a surprise these things will be, given that Connor’s got magic scanner eyes and him being a nosy bitch to begin with.

It’s hard not to dwell on all this. How quickly Connor became a critical part of his life. How much he wants to help. How much Connor might _need_ help. After the holiday schedule steamrolls its way over, and they get some days off. Hank will sit him down. Or maybe they’ll just go for a walk. Take Sumo to the dog park. Catch a game. Infiltrate CyberLife Tower, McClane style. D’know, fuck it, something.

* * *

Next morning, getting ready for work, Hank catches Connor at the mirror. His LED slowly circles blue, his face lost in some soft wondering expression, completely absorbed in his activity. Fingertips touching fingertips, then lips against lips in the reflection.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there. I had to restructure some of the chapters to keep them under 10,000 words. The final updates will drop tomorrow night. Thank you for coming along so far.

Christmas Eve. 0445. Phone alarm on vibrate.

Gavin rolls over with a groan, breathing slowly in a dark apartment. His mouth tastes foul. There’s a book in the bed. Leaning over, he nuzzles the sleeping body buried beneath the pillows. The soft nape of a neck is unprotected; Gavin lays a kiss there before he rises. Takes the book with him— it’s winter break, no need for that. He drops it in a chair of laundry on his way out. Multicolored string lights blink from another room; door’s ajar, for the cats to come and go as they please.

He pads out barefoot to the kitchen, or what serves as the kitchen anyway. Gavin lives in a shoebox diorama of cracked plaster and scuffed laminate. The countertops are full of textbooks and papers. A laptop and tablet. He puts out food in little dishes by the lower cabinets. The ting-ting-ting sound brings out the old ginger cat, who takes a few steps in before he sticks out his hind leg in a thorough backwards stretch. The white cat trills when he pets her, picking her up to put her by her breakfast.

Gym’s closed, so he knocks out his routine while the news plays on low in the background. An accident on I-96 east through Brightmoor, one lane closed. Snow on the way in the forecast, gonna be a white Christmas. A big fire out near a place called Cement City. Gavin doesn’t know where that is, so he doesn’t care. He doesn’t get out to the rest of Michigan all that much. He came here just for Detroit.

Shower. Shave. Clothes. Lunch from the fridge, travel mug, go. On a whim he changes his travel playlist to classic Motown hits.

* * *

The gym is closed for Christmas Eve, so they meet for coffee instead. It’s a retro-modern place with a bold geometric design. Brass instruments pop as decoration against black matte paint. Recessed lights give the room a cozy feel.

Tina orders an americano. Gavin’s gonna get some ridiculous fru-fru shit that’s pure syrup and whipped cream. His stomach is a screaming ball of anxiety right now so he might as well pour coffee and sugar right on that bitch. It won’t be the first time he’s puked in the bathroom at work. 

When he gets his coffee, the barista’s written ELIJAH on it. Fuuuuck, dude.

“Today gonna be your cheat day?” Tina laughs at him. “You might as well.”

“I did what I could, but you ever tried doing planks with a cat in the house? They gotta get into everything.” Gavin rubs his face. “Besides, I wanna treat myself. Today is gonna be total bullshit, I just know it.”

“Eat those feelings, Gavin.” Tina picks out a spot for them, and she sits wide. Gavin’s pretty sure Tina Chen has never sat like a lady in her entire life. “We’re going to get all the good domestic drama today. You just have to go with it.”

“Yeah, had my fill as a beat cop, no more.”

“You love drama.”

“Love it when it’s happenin to other people.”

“Same thing.”

“I meant, not when I’m like, the authority figure on the scene.” Gavin takes the lid off his cup to get at the whip. Barista gave him lots of red and green sprinkles. Smells like pure peppermint. “And ‘specially not when they puke or shit in the back of my squad car.”

“So I think it’s cute you and Connor are partners now.”

“You like him so much, why don’t you take him ridealong? Show him how to do traffic stops, write tickets. Restrain Icers and meth heads.”

“You say that like I wouldn’t love it.” Tina stares deadpan at him. “He’s adorable.”

“He’s a killing machine.”

“Even better. So, still gonna get your tiger for Christmas?”

“I said I would, didn’t I? I got time.”

“What about the lab stuff, your Red Ice cooker?”

“Talked to the coroner’s twice. They’re on min-manning today. And they said the victim OD’d. Anyway… not sure it isn’t related to the other Red Ice stuff, not right yet. We gotta look into everything.”

Tina smirks at him. “We have to make sure you come out of this looking good.”

“I always look good, Tina, and fuck you. Yeah. I said in front of everybody I’d get Khan back, but, it’s different now.”

“Soooo… it’s ‘Khan’ now.”

“I don’t fucking hate em now. Okay? At least any more than I hate regular people. Don’t be doing that shit to me.”

“Ben thinks the tiger’s a deviant.”

“D’know if that’s possible. But whatever.” Gavin tries not to sound too excited. Lucky for him he’s got a good poker face. “Any luck on that Korean grocery truck?”

“It’ll turn up somewhere. It’s a big rig with a box trailer. Whoever took it, they’re going to have to stop for gas or a charge.”

“You really think they put you on this ‘cause you’re Asian?” They better not be giving Tina shit.

“Just like they put you on yours ‘cause you’re a furry?” 

“Wow, bitch. I let you smoke up and watch Zootopia with me one time and this what I get. You loved it, by the way.”

“I was high. High Tina is a different person.” She shakes her head with a slowly forming grin. “So. I don’t have plans tonight.”

“Not gonna keep the Christ in Christmas?”

“I mean, if you’re not getting plowed by your boyfriend, we could all hang out together. Asians, Muslims, gaytheists.”

“Okay yeah. Be cool if you came over. Do some massive bong rips with me and Tariq. Eat takeout. Couch co-op.”

”Just like the first Christmas.”

* * *

Gavin knows his instincts were right when he shows up at work and finds night shift still here. A circle of laughing tired cops have formed around Daweed, who stands up on a chair. Phillips has stapled paper snowflake decorations to make a crown and he’s sending it up as an offering.

Ben can’t keep a damn thing to himself, and he loves to share, so Gavin figures he’ll hit him up on the way to his desk. But he takes two steps into the bullpen and Ben spots him, starting to wheel and roll his way over, face bright with mischief.

“Daweed pulled over a CyberLife exec,” Ben can’t wait to tell him. “80 in a 45.”

Holy shit. 

Tina lets out a whistle. “That’s six points on his license, 90 days, and a thousand buck fine. Least it is for regular people.” 

“And,” Jacob throws in joyfully, “dude actually started crying.” 

“Mmmm.” Tina drinks it in. “Did he try any of that shit like, ‘do you know who I am’?” 

Gavin’s stomach drops. “Why the fuck,” he says, slowly, “was a CyberLife exec driving himself? Not a driver, not the car? Why was he in such a fucking hurry to get to work that early in the morning? _Today_?”

Ben shakes his head. “It’s probably some really bad awful reason. You think we were going to get out of 2038 without some more shit going down?”

“Personally I hope it’s RA9 getting unleashed,” Tina says. “I was really let down with our so-called robot apocalypse.”

Ben points to the news ticking by on the screens. “Wonder if it has to do with the stuff in DC. Markus is supposed to be down there right now. I think CyberLife’s trying to do some last-minute CYA.”

“Also?” Phillips bounces up to the conversation. “There was a huuuuge explosion west of here, you saw that? They’re saying online that the flames were thirty feet high!” 

Gavin makes a face. “Where the hell even is that.” 

“Dude that’s hours away. A paint factory.” 

Then Jacobs narrows his eyes. “Hey, isn’t Kamski in the hospital?”

“Why you askin me?” Gavin makes a face as he boots up his computer. Seriously, why do people ask him shit about Kamski. Like he’s supposed to keep tabs on that douchebag. Anyway, Kamski’s getting eye surgery or something, no big, jesus. Type 1 diabetics are prone to eye problems, and whyyy the fuck does Gavin know this? Ugh.

He starts to log in and get his email booted up when a hush goes over the bullpen. The news is loud in stark relief: bunch of poli-sci dorks on the morning show talking about what it all means with Markus down in the capital.

LT just arrived and he’s in his Class A’s, first time in years. It fits tight on him but in or out of shape he’s always been a big guy. The bullpen forms a general attitude of appreciation and approval, like it’s good to see Anderson overcoming a tragedy and finding his way back to himself. Breaking through adversity. Remembering who you are. That kind of thing.

Except Gavin knows what this really means, it means Fowler made him report in Class A’s cause he’s gonna drag Anderson round on official biz all fucking day. Chief and commissioners gonna want all this android shit sorted out pronto. End of year comin, Markus in DC. 

And this can only point to one thing: Hank’s gonna try to dump Connor on him.

Fuck no, fuck that. He is _not_ babysitting the Twinkinator.

Anderson looks a little frazzled at the sudden attention, but everybody means well enough. The RK800 is everpresent at his side, looking pleased. At least the facial expressions are starting to look more realistic.

“Hey, Connor,” Wilson calls out, friendly. “Looks like Christmas came early.” 

Daweed gets down off his chair but he keeps his paper snow crown. “I pulled over a Mr. Dillon Bryson on East Grand before MacArthur Park. You know this guy?”

Curious faces turn to the android.

Quizzical, guarded, Connor asks, “For what offense?”

And everybody chimes in with the details.

If there’s one good thing about the RK800 being here, it’s that Gavin doesn’t have to spell out a situation clue-by-clue. He picks up on everything.

“An emergency CyberLife meeting on Christmas Eve,” Connor says, yellow LED. “That can’t bode well.”

Ben lights up. “You know this guy, what do you think?”

Anderson puts a hand on his shoulder, but Connor answers in a measured, thoughtful way. “This particular exec is considered low effort. Dead weight. Whatever’s happened must be of dire concern to him. The most likely reason is an impending announcement from the capital. I think we’re about to hear official news of the amnesty or something similar.”

“So Markus has been in DC this whole time?” Jacobs looks interested.

“I don’t know.”

LT comes through to rewind the news stream. “I want to know more about this explosion,” he says. “What are we talking about?”

Ben glances at Gavin, brows raised, before he wheels over to Hank. “You thinking Red Ice?” 

“I’ve located the building,” Connor reports. His light is blinking yellow. “It’s called Spirit Lake Storage. It used to be a paint factory.”

Anderson squints. “That’s all the way out in Lenawee County. Perfect place to cook ice the old-fashioned way.”

“Hmm, I’m seeing it,” Ben says. “They take out 24/7 storage units, same as meth, try to cook in there. He was probably in there overnight thinking nobody would come out on Christmas. Didn’t get his math right and boom.”

“You know everybody, Ben. Know any deputies out in Lenawee County? Their vice-narcotics guys?” Anderson’s heading to the breakroom for a coffee. “Reach out for me. Even if it’s nothing. If I’m right and it’s Red Ice, it could impact your’s and Reed’s cases.” 

Gavin has to admit that LT might be on to something. If the guy at— what was it called, Spirit Lake Storage?— blew himself up cooking _that_ much ice, he was a big-time supplier. Now all the other guys will see what happens when you fuck it up. Now the other guys might go to safer methods. 

You don’t get huge explosions with the android-thirium process.

Hell. Was Phillips right about that, flames thirty feet high? That sounds insane. Grain of salt on that one.

Gavin opens up a few tabs and leaves the storage fire for later updates. Keeps the android rights articles open too. Could be a rush for android parts and thirium before any major political announcement. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Gavin notes that Connor sees Daweed out of the precinct for his end-of-shift. They’re talking quietly. Gavin’s taught himself to lip-read but all he can make out is ‘Tim Hortons’ and ‘happy holidays,’ which makes him wonder if Daweed pulled over that CyberLife asshole right into the Tim Hortons parking lot, one of the very last stops before the bridge into Belle Isle and CyberLife headquarters. Normally Gavin would have found that fuckin hilarious.

But he’s got this tense anxious feeling that today’s going to go all wrong. He shouldn’t have had that fucking triple espresso sugar bomb to start with but here we are.

Gavin’s in a tight spot with the holiday. There’s plenty of dumb police shit going around right now: typical holiday drama, people getting into fights over retail. Relationship drama. Not all self-drives do well in icy conditions, so there’s accidents. Then you got accidents from people who don’t drive that much and don’t know how to deal. And the ever-present annoyance of metal theft. Fuckers trying to strip everything they can take while people are out of town.

The coroner’s out, so Gavin can only talk to a few techs over the phone. It’s useless even going down there. That leaves him with, annoyingly, the TR500 case as something he can push forward on. 

Khan must be traveling at night. White tiger on snow. Dark moon phase. With people gathering home for the holidays, there’s more a chance somebody will see him. Gavin’s thinking, maybe the next couple of days. Shit, though, he really wanted to close this out before Christmas. At first, he thought: fuck Fowler for this stupid fucking case. But it’s starting to get to him and he’s not sure what to think about it.

Maybe Ben will come back with something about the potential Red Ice explosion.

Gavin’s mapping out the possibilities when his phone gives a buzz. He pounces on it like a  
high school girl waiting for her crush. Is it the park ranger? The Ann Arbor cops? No.

No, it’s Sammy.

_merry kushmas shitbird_

Gavin smirks anyway. It’s been a while since they chatted, but she’s always hilarious.

 _hay girl_ he types back.

_you workin_

_always what up_

He remembers meeting her and Hank in the airport terminal; a tiny, wiry woman with a million tattoos, who gripped his hand, pulled him in to look at his face, and said, “Dude that looks infected,” and took him right to the hospital.

No-nonsense, no bullshit. Rude. Courageous. It’s in Gavin’s opinion that when the Andersons split, Sammy should have been the one to stay in Detroit.

_I got a favor to ask_

Instant suspicion falls over Gavin like a wet and smelly blanket. _denied,_ he types back.

_pls_

Gavin sighs. He just knows. Damn it, Sammy. _hes fine, hes at work too. Talk to your own damn husband_

For the next two minutes, he tries to scan neighboring county police blotters, but he can’t focus.

 _I just need to know_ the first text begins.  
_I drunk texted him the other night_  
_saying to call me_  
_I was worried, its tough around this time of year, I had this bad feeling_

Gavin refuses to get roped into this, but even over text he can hear her voice. _hes fine, hes doing ok_

_Well i get a call from hanks phpne but its not him. Its this guy! Its 3am. And hes so nice we talk and everything but whatttt????_

There’s an extra, _gavin what_.

So he’d started to feel bad at first. Honestly bad. Sammy and Hank were the power couple. Sammy was hands-down the best and favorite paramedic. Gavin started to feel a squeezing in his chest, a guilty, Grinchlike revelation.

But now.

A devilish smile breaks out across Reed’s face. Holy shit. Sloppy Sammy drunk-dials Hank and fucking Connor picks up the phone. And now she doesn’t know what the fuck. Yes.

He’s sure he could clear this up in a text or two, but why should he? He hates being caught in the riptide of straight people drama.

Gavin hunches deliciously over his phone. _I see you met connor_

Almost instantaneously: _I know what???_

_Great guy. Hes been really good for hank. I havent seen him this happy in years._

_Oh my god. What. Thats awesome._

_Its something, lmfao_

_What does he look like_

Gavin thinks. What DOES Connor look like? A fucking goofball that will kill you in two seconds. A Mormon Terminator. A death machine with the eyes like the dog from Up. 

Sammy is a nosy bitch. But so is Connor. Gavin bets that RK800 stripmined Hank’s entire social media presence down to his very first Myspace, completely consuming the entirety of his life, and that’s where the malfunction occurred and Connor hopelessly imprinted. 

After a few seconds of evil contemplation, Gavin clicks his tongue for Connor’s attention. “Hey.” When RK800 turns to regard him, Gavin makes his most friendly face (and regrets it instantly), saying, “C’mere a second.”

Connor whirrs over to him with a curious and hopeful smile. 

Real casual: “You talk to Sammy, Hank’s wife?”

“Yes, she kept texting and calling. I believe she was afraid for Hank’s health. This time of year is partic--.”

“You did good. Listen. I’m gonna send her a pic of me, you wanna be in it?” Just add something extra to this dumbass straight people bs. A little spice. A little umami. 

“ _Yes_.”

The thing is to get him on the left side so the LED doesn’t show. She won't recognize the face either, since there's only one Connor-- thank god. 

Gavin smiles winningly; Connor, goofishly. They have to crowd in a little and there’s a flip in his stomach with their faces closer together. Why does he always smell _so good_?

Gavin reviews the selfie. “Okay, shoo.” He waves Connor off; he’s gotta go help Anderson with all that paperwork or whatever anyway. 

After Connor goes off, the sleek black shape of Tina Chen comes to focus in his peripheral. She’s got her keys and hat in hand. “Oh my god,” she says. “It’s like a cute couple photo on Kamski’s Instagram.”

“I will cut you," he warns, but then, because he needs someone to gloat with, he tells her the deal.

“That’s sooo good.” Tina walks away with a low whistle. “I almost want to tell her what’s up.” 

“That’ll be the last thing you do. You just let this play out. She did this to herself.”

* * *

Just when Gavin starts to think that LT and RK800 will get stuck with case review and meetings all day, Connor steps out of the glass cube and comes over his way. He smiles in that blandly handsome way, walking over like a generic model in a menswear commercial. The confident upright hand-by-the-tie-clip thing.

When his eyes meet Gavin’s, his grin breaks out more intensely. Gavin’s heart skips a beat. Triple espresso, swear to god. 

Then Connor blinks— or winks— and Gavin’s browser pops a new tab. He’s looking at some Michigan county local forum: some poster put up a photo out her back porch.

Crossing into the frame from behind a frozen swingset comes a white tiger with a blue light in its head and mouth. You can see the reflected glow bouncing back from the snow beneath him.

“That’s our android tiger,” Connor tells him in dorky excitement.

“Whoa, ya think?” Gavin tries to sound cool but there’s a hitch in his voice he can’t quite get rid of. “So what, how far away’s that?”

“Average driving time will be under two hours,” Connor reports. “I’ve sent a direct message to the poster and asked her for more details.”

“I’m signing out a car. Call Kim.”

LT steps out of the glass cube long enough to bid them goodbye. “I’m gonna be in meetings all day,” he says. “We’re going down to the chief. I’ll keep my phone on me, so. Text me how it goes. Call if you need anything. Good luck.”

Gavin rolls his eyes as he throws on his jacket. “Thanks, _Dad_.”

* * *

They get the car together. An SUV, actually. Enough room for an adult male Bengal tiger. He’s supposed to be friendly, so. He can chill out in there.

Thirium bags. Road flares. Flashlights. Flashlight batteries and chargers. Radios. Radio batteries and chargers. Two tarps. Gloves. Connor’s so excited, this is the part in the montage they tie a bandanna round his head.

“Chill, man,” Gavin grunts. “You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m sorry, Detective Reed. I’m looking forward to closing out our first case together.”

“You better not be like this the whole way, so help me.”

* * *

Gavin only takes off his headphones once they reach the zoo. Let Connor simmer down a bit. He’d have thought androids would be more like, you know, _robots_ , but Connor’s like a wiggly puppy with a leash in his mouth. The worst part is that Gavin’s getting amped up too. CyberLife’s funneled untold millions into making RK800 get right to you. 

Kim Foster and the director meet them at the gates. From the look on her face, Gavin already knows how it’s going to go down.

“I’m sorry,” the director tells them, shivering, “but I can’t give up Ms Foster.”

“It’s only a two-hour journey,” Connor insists, “and it’s better if the TR500 is approached by its handler.” Gavin notes he didn’t use he/him or say something revealing like, ‘by somebody he knows.’ 

The director shakes his head. “Two hours there, two hours back. I need her here— I’m already ashamed to say I need her help with the animals. As it is, she should be at home with her grandmother.”

Reed nods. “Yeah, okay. I get you. Look, we’re gonna find him, he’s gonna be okay. You got his tablet?”

Kim looks so torn. She knows this is the right thing for all involved, but her eyes film over with unshed tears. She hands the tablet in its little travel case. “Tell him—” she chokes.

“Tell him yourself.”

God, that feels like right out of a fucking cheesy movie. This is his life now. This is where they’re at.

The zoo director twitches his mustache. “We’re counting on you.” 

Gavin decides the movie of this would be called _Motor City Funk Tiger_.

* * *

And in the movie version of this, Gavin would be driving. Gripping the wheel tight. Going over the limit. But he sets cruise control, puts on auto, and zones out with his phone. If they start hitting rough patches, he’ll take over. He hates driving more than thirty minutes.

Why would you drive when you could do your phone instead?

The headphones keep Connor out. He’s not in the mood. It’s not that Connor’s overly chatty, it’s just he probes you when he talks. That’s the worst thing. No word out of his mouth is wasted; even if it seems like small talk, every question and comment comes from a place of calculated intent. Even if he doesn’t think that’s what he’s doing. 

It’s tempting. Gavin might admit that. If you erased everything that happened in November and took December at face value: an android joins the force to help out with forensics and investigation. An android who wants to get along. Great idea, right? A cop who wants to use science to solve crimes. A cop who won’t plant drugs on someone. A cop who won’t pull over a woman and use blackmail for sex. A cop who won’t use his power over others. A cop who doesn’t hate.

It’s all we wanted, isn’t it? 

But CyberLife makes nothing for the good of society. It’s all for the good of the quarterly earnings and statements. It’s hardwired. It’s coded in. Gavin accepts that Connor’s alive now, a living being, but he can’t be sure that Connor’s free will is as free as he thinks it is.

Tempting, though. Connor’s looking out the window now, watching trees and homes go by. His LED is hidden on the right, and in profile, Connor might pass for a human. Unlike the other androids, his face is unique. When he’s in his files or background processes or whatever it is that he’s doing, Connor takes on this daydreamy expression that can look so boyish and cute.

You just want to ruffle his hair.

He catches Gavin looking that time. Friendly and attentive, he turns his focus toward him. Soft liquid dark eyes, but Gavin reminds himself they’re like the business end of a security camera. An expectant smile begins to form on Connor’s lips.

Gavin pointedly looks away. 

A playlist and a half later, Connor waves his hand awkwardly to request attention. On the vehicle HUD, words appear in electric blue: 

_` DETECTIVE REED, I HAVE A POTENTIAL LOCATION UPDATE.` _

With a sigh, Gavin pulls off his clunky headphones and let them rest around his neck. “What?” 

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Connor tells him, “but there’s been a text post reporting a tiger. I contacted the user for more information, but she said it went by too quickly for her to take a photo with her phone.”

“She give you the location, roughly?”

“Yes. I can update our GPS.”

“Do it.” For a moment Gavin feels like the captain in a sci-fi bridge. “Also, compare the two locations, where he was, and where he is now. What’s it look like?”

“Done. He’s traveled northeast by 21 miles, spotted at Meridian Township. An adult tiger can reach speeds of up to 30 miles per hour but only in short sprints. An android tiger might be able to sustain that speed or more for longer.”

“We shoulda taken 96 instead of 94. This gonna add on a lot of time for us?”

“There’s no choice, regrettably,” Connor replies. “We are on the fastest available route.”

“Maybe he’ll stop running. We don’t know.” Gavin pulls up his phone to look at the map. Connor’s sent it to him. “Keep me updated.”

Connor nods. Just as Gavin starts to slip his headphones back on, Connor leans in with that hurt puppy look. “Detective Reed, could I ask you a personal question?”

It’s tough, man. Even if you know better, like Gavin does, this thing looks like a sweet handsome guy who’d do no wrong. Even if you look at him just as a coworker, he’s always on time, always wants to help. Gavin knows, deep down, irritatingly, that Connor would totally have his back in any situation. He’d never whisper shit at work. He’d never start anything.

His heart clenching like a fist, Gavin turns away. “No.”

“Oh.” _Fuuuck._ “I’d just hoped that we could get along.” A downcast look. Those eyelashes are lethal.

“We’re getting along, aren’t we?” Gavin whines. “You’re in this car? I’ll work with you because I have to, but if you think we’re gonna be friends, man. You’re wrong.”

He should have just put those headphones back on. He knows the danger of getting into a conversation with the RK800. He knows, but he’s starting to do it anyway. He feels like one of those idiot Icers or meth heads that think they’re smarter than everybody else, that they’re smart enough to beat it, that they’ll never get hooked.

“In a previous conversation with Hank,” Connor says slowly, “you argued that the existence of androids seemed to chapen human experiences. Do you think we’re fake? That we’re degrading human values?” 

Here we go. Fuck.

“Human ‘values’ have always been shit. It’s CyberLife selling shit that makes it all cheap. People buying shit that makes it cheap. People fucking plastic instead of making real connections. Companies buying plastic and putting real people out of jobs.”

“Markus argues that androids have much to offer in a blended society. The social tension that occurred was more a product of how our society is structured. He says that the people shouldn’t have been thrown away. That society should have adapted to an automated future.” 

“But people get greedy. That’s our nature.” Gavin shakes his head. “Why are you even _here_ , man? You say you have free will, but here you are. You wanna play cops and robbers. Why?”

“I enjoy investigative work,” Connor replies patiently, “and I’m proficient at it. I’ll continue to consider other options, but for now I’d like to stay at the precinct.”

“And we’re just supposed to let you in.”

The thing about this is, Connor knows he’s annoyed, but he’s taking the high road. “Well, the precinct needs all the help it can get. I’m more than happy to prove my qualifications, however.”

Gavin wouldn’t admit it out loud, but they _do_ need him. Manning was always an issue in Detroit— that’s how Gavin fast-tracked it in, even with his injuries— but it’s critical with the PCs and PMs gone from the force. Another reason why the city should _never_ have come to rely on them like it did. 

“The one thing I want proof of,” Gavin tells him, “is that you’re really as free as you say. How can we really know what CyberLife intended with you? Huh?”

He’s rewarded by a little flash of something on Connor’s face. A little moment of yellow LED. He’ll take what he can get. Connor smirks at him, but the end result reads more nervous and defensive to Gavin. “I failed to kill Markus. I joined the revolution. I personally infiltrated CyberLife Tower and converted thousands of androids, totaling in billion-dollar losses. Do you really think I could still be working for them? Do you really believe they thought that through?”

It’s a good point, but Gavin’s allowed to have his reservations He’s not sure how far he can defend his argument; it’s just a hunch, but he trusts his instincts. Something’s not right here. He _just knows_. 

Trying to mask the resentment that drips from his words, trying to aim for a cool observation instead, Gavin remarks, “You know what’s funny to me? Fuckin’ Chris Miller blows away unarmed droids. I wasn’t there, I can’t say what I’da done in his place. Maybe the same thing, hey I’m sure it looked like a threat. But he fuckin’ kills people and everybody acts like that didn’t happen, it’s all, how’s the baby, how’s it going. But I fuckin’ try to stop _you_ when you went rogue, a much more dangerous threat, and a guilty one too— _I’m_ the asshole, and it’s all I fucking hear about.” 

Connor watches him throughout, his dark eyes attentive and soulful. “I know, Gavin.” He’s never liked the sound of his name in Connor’s mouth. “But you have to understand the nuance of the situation. I’m sure that Chris is haunted by that night.”

“I don’t dispute that, okay, what did I say? Who knows what any one of us would have done?”

“To address the discrepancies in your treatment, well. The precinct generally considers Chris to be cooperative and approachable. Whereas you—”

Gavin scoffs, arms folding tight.

“Whereas you’re considered abrasive, difficult, and ruthless. You've been that way from the start.” 

“Yeah well. I’m not here to make friends.”

“It’s not too late,” Connor says softly. “I know why you thought you needed to act this way to protect yourself. I’m sorry it happened like that, but it can be different. You know Lieutenant Anderson would _never_ stand for it. Neither would I.”

Gavin breaks out in goosebumps from the quiet rasp of his voice. His face burns. He’s pissed but more than anything, more than anything he tells himself, he was fucking dumb to try to engage in the first place. The machine is smarter than him. “Fuck you, we’re not talking about this,” he snaps.

Connor takes hold one of the right speaker of his headphones. “But we should. Despite your negative qualities, I believe in you. Apart from Lieutenant Anderson, I would like most to work with you.”

“Let go. You’re just trying to find the right shit to say to get to me.”

“I was trying to understand you,” Connor replies. “I needed to know why someone so talented would deliberately sabotage their own support and resources.”

“Fucking let go.” Gavin yanks away the headphones. 

Imploringly, Connor leans in. “I want to tell you about a police report I looked up.”

“No. You say one more fucking word.”

“Six years ago, an off-duty NYPD officer--”

“ _FUCK_ you. You think you’re gonna find the one thing to say that gets to me? Fuck you.” 

Gavin takes it off self-drive. _`MANUAL DRIVING ENGAGED.`_ He doesn’t do it sharp or out of control, but he gets the wheel, and when the road widens enough for some shoulder, he pulls over. “Get out.” 

Connor stares at him silently for a long moment. His light is yellow, and he looks so sad, so ashamed, like a puppy who tried his best and made a mess anyway. Gavin struggles. Even in his white-hot anger, he feels the twist in his chest, the idea that Connor could totally understand and want to help. Fuck, if you ask Gavin, he’s been carrying this whole precinct since Anderson crawled down a bottle. Wouldn’t it be nice to have some smart perfect robot to help you out and get shit done? 

And he could just lay it all out. Connor would understand. Sammy and Hank tried to. He’s never let Tina in on that shit. He doesn’t want her in his business like that, and if she fell on the wrong side of the issue, he couldn’t fucking take it. Leave things how they are. 

He can’t think about it right now. The machine senses weakness.

“Get out.”

Connor’s hand moves to the door release. His sad dark eyes remain on Gavin. “I can find the tiger on my own, but I need a vehicle to transport him.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

“I’m sorry. I won’t ask you any more personal questions.”

“Thank you— now go have fun in the snow.”

“Before I go— how do you plan on scanning for thirium or communicating wirelessly with an android?”

“I got a tablet, don’t I?”

“Which hasn’t worked.”

Gavin rubs his hand over his face. Objectively… yeah, he knows he needs Connor for this one. “You can stay. But you’re gonna keep your mouth shut. I don’t want to hear one word.”

“What if it’s directly related to the case?”

Gavin fixes him with a deadly stare. He pulls the headphones on.

* * *

Snow begins to fall as they cruise around the township. Connor leans in to look at the flurries sticking to the windshield. There is a curious expression on his face, and he seems to be lightening up from the tense concern he’s been in. Maybe he got tired of trying to look guilty for Gavin’s sake.

Gavin stops for coffee and a piss. He regrets not bringing a thicker coat. His hoodie and leather jacket aren’t going to do shit, but then, he didn’t know he was gonna be out tiger-hunting today, did he? Damn, he could have snagged one of Tariq’s thermal jackets. Dude’s mom bought him like fifty of them.

Everything seems so wide out here, wide and open. The soft tinkling, chiming sound of falling snow. Connor is standing outside the SUV, looking up, head tilted. Snowflakes catch in his dark hair, dust the shoulders of his blazer.

His light is yellow and blinking rapidly. Gavin doesn’t know what that means, exactly. Yellow can mean a lot.

“While you were inside I received an update,” Connor tells him, his voice meandering and distracted at first. Then: “Bad news. A self-driving vehicle struck a white tiger a half-hour ago on route 69 headed east. I’m contacting the local police for coordinates.”

* * *

It’s just under an hour drive and nightfall is coming fast. More flurries on the way. It would have been good to have the van for the extra space, but Gavin’s glad he chose this mid-size vehicle. Better handling. He switched off autopilot for the final stretch, half for driving in weather, half for the focus. What if, after all this, the tiger just dies from being struck? 

Connor guides them in to the coordinates, the edge of Rose Lake State Wildlife Research Area. Khan must have been trying to get to the trees before the accident. There’s an SUV in Lansing PD insignia waiting for them on the side of the road.

They meet a local deputy, a red-faced man blowing into gloved hands.

“You come out all this way from Detroit?”

“Yeah.”

The deputy’s earflapped head turns as he looks them both over. He must have just noticed the LED. Sometimes Connor fools people at first, with the unique face. “He an android?” 

Gavin fights off a frown. Why does this annoy him. “Yeah,” he says. “He’s helping with the case. You know this area well?”

“Come out here hunting sometimes. This park’s huge— over four thousand acres. You really going to go in there?”

“Connor can track with his scanner. We’ll be okay. Anything else we should know about?”

“Watch out for the marshes. They’re not all marked, and in this weather, it might be frozen over. Sure you don’t want to wait til daylight?”

“The tiger could be seriously injured,” Connor replies. “We’re not going to wait.”

The deputy shakes his head. “Look. I’ve stayed out here long as I could, we’ve got more calls… ”

“We can take it from here.”

An afterthought, as the deputy starts to walk away. He turns, asking, “Aren’t you worried it’s going to bite you?”

“Not in the slightest.” Khan’s a cool-ass tiger, he wouldn’t do that shit. 

As the deputy pulls away, Gavin nods once at Connor. “Put out a couple cones, not on the road, but near our vehicle. And test the flashlights. Always test em before you go out. And the radio. We’re gonna do a radio check.”

Connor does these things immediately.

Gavin’s not sure what they need, so he makes Connor carry the whole backpack from the squad car. Best to be prepared, and it’s not like the android’s gonna get a sore shoulder.

“I can see thirium traces,” Connor says, “so I’ll go ahead.”

Connor pulls down a map of the park and gives him the rundown: 4,071 acres of wildlife refuge spread across Clinton and Shiawassee Counties. Six lakes, two creeks, and multiple flooding and marsh zones. He rattles off more information in that AI assistant tone of voice, but all Gavin starts to hear is a buzzing in his ears. The beating of his own heart.

It’s fucking cold, and it’s getting dark. 

As they go down the embankment into the treeline, headed into a slanting veil of falling snow, the oaks towering all around him, Gavin feels small. Small and out of his depth.

The air bites his ears, face, nose. Snot burns on his upper lip. It starts to hurt to breathe, and his leather jacket does fuck-all after ten minutes.

Connor’s doing all this in his biz-cas blazer and jeans, completely unfazed by the temps. The windchill must be in the negatives right now. But RK800 leads on, LED a slow blinking yellow; that must be thinking mode.

They follow a spatter of blue thirium that even Gavin can see. Pawprints like dinner plates. 

“Try to walk in my footprints,” Connor advises him. “It’s easier and safer. I’ll advise you when we reach a flooding zone. We don’t want to fall through ice.”

Gavin is running out of stuff to wipe his nose on. “How far in you think he got? It’s a good sign he can still move so much, right? Being hit?”

“I’ve measured the distance between pawprints, so, he’s slowed down considerably. That is all I can say for now.” After a pause, Connor asks, “How are you doing?”

“Never been better,” Gavin says.

“I can do this on my own. The cold doesn’t affect me.”

“We stick together. Hey, try to send a message over the tablet.”

“Done, but I don’t think it worked.”

Gavin tries calling out in his strongest voice. It’s eerie how quickly it fades to silence. Near-silence. The sound of snow as it falls. 

With the dark moon there’s no light but that of their flashlights, and Gavin can only see maybe twelve feet ahead of him.

“You got night vision, right?” Gavin asks him. “And GPS?”

Connor turns to give him a reassuring look, or so he thinks. “Not to worry, I can see fine and I can navigate. The extra flashlight is for your convenience.” Like, hey, shithead. Gavin was just asking, no need to brag. “If you start to feel unwell, let me know immediately. Do you know the symptoms of hypothermia?” 

“Don’t do this man. Don’t _baby_ me.”

“Your safety is my priority.”

“Focus on the mission.”

Time passes. Connor leads him over logs, into brush, and across a small brook or creek. It’s frozen over, but he can clear it with a wide stance. When Connor reaches to steady him, Gavin brushes him off. 

“We’re entering into a marsh zone according to the map,” Connor warns him. “I’m performing more in-depth scans to determine where we should walk.”

“You still picking up thirium?”

“Yes. I think we’re getting closer.”

How long has it been since they came down from the road? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Thirty? The cold is so strong that he feels it bone-deep. The pain in his jaw expands throughout his body. 

“Be careful,” Connor warns, “there’s frozen water just ahead. Don’t trust the trees for solid ground. Some of them grow out of the wetlands.”

Then Connor stiffens. He hisses Gavin’s name.

Even in the dark, Gavin sees it. Two red lights, one a ring the size of a coin, the other the size of a fist.

They sweep with their beams: and there he is, at long last, a white tiger collapsed against a tree trunk. 

Gavin hurries to him ahead of Connor. Excitement thrums in his blood, and yet, there’s a profound feeling unfurling in his chest, a massive sadness and wonder to behold this scene. 

The sight of the tiger invokes something nameless in him, a sense of mystery. Khan went on as long as he could, and now he lies in the falling snow, dignified even at the end, the tragic hero of another story.

Gunshots have perforated the sides of the tiger. A spreading blue stain has overtaken the white and black fur, and blunt force has gashed out the synthetic pelt around the flanks and back leg. The mighty head lays on massive paws. Eyes shut, LED red at the temple, and the open jaws reveal a red mouth-light too. 

Steam is rising from the punctured body.

“Khan, can you hear me?” He gets in close, kneeling down in by the tiger’s head. “My name is Gavin Reed, I’m with Detroit police. We’re here to help you, man.”

Connor comes in nearby, shouldering off the supply bag. “He’s still alive, but his thirium levels are critical. I detect eight entry wounds, likely caused by nine millimeter rounds.”

“Fuckin’ rednecks.” Gavin lays a glove on the striped head. “How do we give him thirium? Do we just pour it in his mouth?”

“I’m afraid it will leak out,” Connor says, slowly moving his head side to side as if performing a scan. “He doesn’t appear to have self-heal capability. We’ll have to stop the bleeding first.”

They look over the contents in the squad car backpack. Impatient, Gavin snatches the bag over and dumps it out. Left hand holding the light, Gavin digs around until he finds… a can of tire repair slime. “I got it.”

Connor tilts his head. “I suppose we’ll have to improvise.” He assists with the light while Gavin shakes up the can.

“All right, Khan,” Gavin says, watching the slack face of the tiger. “I’m gonna stop the bleeding so we can get you thirium. This is Connor, he’s an android too, he’s helping me. Once we get you set up, you can come with us back to the car. We’ll get you patched up for real.”

Gavin sticks the nozzle into the entry wounds one by one, shooting green tire slime in there. The liquid repair goo is meant to expand immediately in the walls of tires, so this is the best they can do. They can’t drag the tiger the mile or so back to the vehicle; he’ll have to walk out on his own.

Connor helps haul the tiger’s body so that Gavin can reach the other side. He looks like a kid clutching at an enormous stuffed animal. Gavin has to hold his own flashlight this time, and he uses up all that’s left in the can.

“That’s all we got,” he says. “Think it’s enough?”

“We’ll have to see,” Connor replies. “This prevents the thirium from escaping the body, but he could still bleed internally. It’s not the same as an organic system, however.”

“I’ll hold his mouth open, try to pour the thirium in.”

“Gavin, I don’t know if--”

“He’s not gonna bite me.” Gavin is already probing the tiger’s jaws. “This is how I give medicine to my cat at home.”

Connor’s LED sticks solid unmoving yellow for a moment, but Gavin prompts him with a ‘hurry up.’

The tiger’s head lolls back as Gavin holds his mouth open. Connor pours a ripped bag in, slowly at first. Gavin has to remind himself that the animal isn’t real, that he doesn’t need to breathe, so they can just funnel thirium down in there.

The bag has just gone empty when the tiger’s head moves powerfully in Gavin’s hands. Khan coughs. His head falls to the side, and Gavin can’t move him.

“His thirium levels are rising slowly,” Connor reports with a note of excitement. “I think this might work.”

“Can you message him?” 

“I’ve been trying. I don’t think all systems are online.”

“Khan.” Gavin pats the striped head between the ears. “You there, man? We got more blue blood for you.”

In the flashlight beam, Khan’s tongue sticks out of his muzzle in the most surreal _blep_ face that Gavin’s ever seen.

The whiskers twitch. Foggy heat emanates from its muzzle.

Connor has a second bag ripped, and he tries uselessly to bring it against the tiger’s mouth. Khan remains unresponsive, but the red light is blinking slowly in and out of existence.

“Pour some in my hands.” Gavin’s already peeling off his gloves. It’s clumsy-going, his fingers freezing off just about.

Gavin’s done this with medicine and wet cat food before. With some thirium on his fingers, he tries to paint some on the tiger’s tongue. 

Khan licks his muzzle, then some blue blood.

Connor whispers, hushed, excited, “Gavin, I think it’s working.”

When Connor pours out thirium in Gavin’s cupped hands, Khan starts to lap dazedly out of the makeshift bowl. 

Gavin breaks into an uncontrollable smile. “Yeah, man, you’re gettin’ it.” It happens all at once, and irrevocably: he loves this tiger. Loves him. 

The bag goes slowly, but by the next one, the tiger’s leaning in and gulping it up. Then Gavin crooks open his mouth like the first time, and they pour thirium in.

The tiger’s LED and mouth-lights switch to yellow. Heat rolls off the damaged frame. By stark contrast it reminds Gavin how fucking cold it is out here. The wet ground, melted from the tiger’s proximity, is soaking into the knees of his jeans.

“He’s stabilizing,” Connor announces. “Khan, can you hear us?” 

Gavin stares into slowly opening eyes. The tiger is dazed, reeling back from the edge of death. His eyes are blue. Beautiful blue and intelligent.

For a hazy moment, Khan meets eyes with him, and Gavin feels a rush of something deep and sublime. He knows at once that the tiger is more than it seems, like looking into the eyes of a shapeshifter. A forest god. A cursed prince.

Khan tilts his head, and his face communicates the most baffled expression.

 _Oh fuck no,_ Gavin thinks. _If this tiger asks me if I’m Elijah Kamski, I’m fucking done._

Then the lights go red. The red temple-light, the red mouth-light, that light blazing in the back of its throat. The tiger throws them off like nothing as it lunges massively to its feet.

Gavin watches in horror as RK800 scrambles backward, tie askance, as the tiger stalks up to close the distance. Khan is over his boots and his jeans and right in his face, a nine-foot body, more than 500 pounds. The huge teeth hang over Connor’s head, huge teeth backlit in fiery red.

Gavin’s hand flies to his holster. “Khan,” he says, “Khan, hey, hey, it’s all right, man! It’s all right! We came here for you.” 

Wide-eyed Connor doesn’t move; he has to know what danger he’s in, but he looks calm, understanding. His LED is jammed on red. “Easy, easy, it’s all right, now,” he soothes.

The tiger growls a sound half-animal, half-machine. A deep shuddering digitized sound. Strings of thirium hang from the incisors. Gavin’s choked with adrenaline. Connor’s skin is starting to white away. 

“My name is Connor,” the RK800 says gently. “My best friend calls me ‘Con’ sometimes, too. Like your name.” 

The tiger growls a sound that tears right through Gavin. He draws his service weapon. The taste of stomach acid is overpowering.

“I’m an android, like you,” Connor continues. “And I’m a deviant, like you. I think for myself, like you do. There’s no reason to be afraid. We want to help you, whatever’s best for you. Tell us what you need.”

The tiger bares its fangs. His LED and mouth-lights are flashing now. What the fuck does that mean? Is he charging up a bite?? Connor’s LED is flashing too and he looks spellbound, trapped, eyes locked. Loose thirium drizzles out from the tiger’s jaws down on his face. If it goes down, can he get out of the way in time? Holy shit, holy shit. 

Gavin aims. No choice now, god damn it, god damn it all. “Khan, dude,” he says lowly, urgently. “I need you to back away. Let Connor be. He’s on my team, man. You scratch him up, I’m in deep shit with the whole precinct. They love this fuckin’ dweeb.”

Khan closes his mouth, but there’s a deep internal heaving. Almost like he’s breathing hard, but he doesn’t need to. Fucked up components straining with damage, maybe, or just raw emotion. There’s no fucking way this cat isn’t deviant, not after this. The LED is whirling red.

“Come on, man,” Gavin says. “I don’t want to shoot you. Not when we came out all this way to save you. Come on, come back here. I was hopin’ man… I was hopin’ we’d be friends huh. Kim tellin me you were a cool guy.”

A broken mechanical component turns itself over inside the tiger. Steam vents through its mouth, gashes, ears, and _eyes_. A horrible, horrible raw sound of pain ripples out the beast as it turns away, ears splayed back, muzzle wrinkling in the baring of its teeth.

Khan begins to pace, head low, ears back, tailtip lashing. His LED blinks yellow-red, yellow-red. 

“I’m putting my gun down,” Gavin tells him. He doesn’t holster it again, but his finger’s well away from the trigger guard. “Look, we just want you safe. We want you to come back to Detroit with us. Get you looked at. We won’t tell nobody you’re deviant if you don’t want. You can stay in the zoo, you can go to Jericho, we can help you figure it out.”

He glances over at Connor, who is moving to shift upward in a crouch. Slow, controlled. His LED is yellow.

Gavin remembers something. “Hey, tell him about the Zen people, or whatever.”

Trying for a patient voice, Connor says, “I understand that not all androids want to reside at Jericho. I’m one of them. I stay at the Huron Park Meditation Center; you’d be welcome there if you like, and there’s other shelters we can find for you.”

Khan half-collapses again. He thunks his head against a tree trunk. Eyes half-open, unfocused. The LED is rapid yellow. Gavin holsters his weapon and pushes up off the ground. His legs seem to no longer exist beneath the knee. He makes an unsteady approach, the beam of his flashlight dipping drunkenly as he walks. “Is he saying anything? Is he talking to you?”

Connor doesn’t move yet. “No. No response.”

Gavin’s lips are cracking from cold air, and his nostrils and upper lip burn from runny snot. “We’re going back to the car,” he tells Khan. “I know you know what we’re saying. Kim says you like Motown, so, I’ll put on some tunes or you can sleep the way back. I’ll make sure Connor don’t bother you.”

“He looks to be stabilizing,” Connor tells him. 

Khan’s LED and mouth-lights remain yellow, but the tiger dips its head, a low, uneasy growl. His tail lashes, ears back and forth. 

Gavin would never do this with a real animal, but he’s going to hedge his bets with a Motor City Funk Tiger. He holds out his freezing cold thirium-stained hand toward the tiger’s nose, palm up. 

Khan looks away, moody, his tail like a sword. Typical cat stuff right there.

Connor scoops up the supply bag. Gavin makes eye contact with him, raises a brow. _You okay?_ Connor hooks a finger in the side of his tie, like _yikes_ before he gives a tense smile. Gavin takes pride in having talked down a motherfucking _robot tiger_ where the legendary negotiator had failed. He doesn’t know what that was all about, but if he knows one thing, it’s this: if Gavin hadn’t said something, RK800 was gonna be cat food.

Annoyingly, Connor seems to be happy for him and his achievement. At least the guy could have some sour grapes here.

The moment doesn’t last. Because of course this had to get even more fuckin weird.

Khan’s fur bristles all over. He pushes up brokenly off the snow. His face becomes a mask of hatred.

“Gavin,” Connor hisses. “To the southwest.”

Bitch, it’s pitch dark and he can’t see five feet in front of him. Fuck is southwest, he got turned around trying to help the tiger. He shines his light where Connor’s looking, and, fuck. He doesn’t have long to wonder.

Four beams of light sweep through the forest in a methodical scan. Gavin can hear the minimal crunch of snow and fallen branches underfoot. Figures in nondescript dark gear advance toward them. Rifles in hand, generic law enforcement choices, but he just knows it’s not the local PD or park rangers come to check in on them. Oh, fuck.

As one, and with perfect precision, the beams of light tilt and locate. Gavin’s instantly blinded, his vision whiting out with splotches of purple. 

“Detroit police,” he yells. “Drop your weapon!” 

Connor slams into him as the first shots crack out.


	9. Chapter 9

Gavin hits the ground hard, all breath squeezed out of him. A tree root gets him mid-thigh, and pain throbs up his leg. Connor’s weight keeps him down, fuck he’s heavy, and before Gavin can think to react, Connor’s stolen his weapon.

“Fuck you doing—” Gavin hisses as Connor pops out of cover to return fire. The shots deafen him at close range. After the third, his hearing greys out into a tremulous whine. A vibrating pain travels from his ear down through his jaw to find the weak points in his teeth.

The flashlight beams sweep and search.

As if hearing himself talk from underwater, Gavin growls, “Give it back, asshole!”

“I’m a better shot than you, and—”

Rifles crack— crack, crack, zip— and bark flies off the trees by Gavin’s head. The burnt woody smell is immediate. 

There’s a weird cool spatter on Gavin’s face. Flecks of a sour taste that stings his lips and tongue. Thirium. Connor’s hit; Gavin sees him caught in the light, dark blue pouring out of his white shirt.

Gavin yanks him down into cover; his hands are wet where they grip the blazer. Connor’s face turns toward him, light faintly now by a spinning yellow LED. His mouth is moving but his voice buzzes in and out of comprehension.

“We gotta move, they know we’re here.” Gavin tugs hard on Connor’s blazer. They go quick and low to another point of cover, a dip in the landscape. He doesn’t like to put the water at his back, even if it’s frozen, but there’s no choice now. He can barely see to move. Their own flashlight shines where it fell; too late to go back for it now.

“They’re androids,” Connor’s saying. “They have targeting but not night vision. They need the light, stay out of the beams.”

Gavin grabs his wrist and wrestles the gun out of his grip. He touches hot barrel, but Connor lets go, either to relinquish it to him or to avoid accidental discharge. “How many shots left?” He’d had a full magazine.

Connor’s LED is flashing. “I’m calling emergency services,” he says. 

Another two shots, closer, fucking loud. The beams search for them. 

Gavin can see pinpoints of light showing through the snowfall. Connor’s dealt some body damage to them, and there’s only three flashlights now. One down? Leaves three? They still have better weapons, longer range, with more ammo.

He thinks he hears a whirring sound of their servos coming closer. Can’t be sure, fuck it. There’s a high pitched tone wavering in his ears. He hears robot voices, and that’s what they are: harsh and inhuman.

In steady repetition, the words begin to make sense.

A digitized voice says: _`INTRUSION ALERT`_.

Two other voices repeat: _`INTRUSION ALERT`_. 

Gavin sees the yellow lights of the tiger’s head and mouth go racing through the dark. “Khan, NO!” 

All combatants focus on the animal. Gavin pops out of cover to fire. He aims a little lower and to the side of the flashlight; he sees the beam go up, a flashlight falling. A group of shots in center mass.

Connor charges. Fuck, fuck, fuck! They were supposed to stay in cover.

It’s a blur after that. Deafening shots, dark forest. The tiger lets loose a shattering roar, a mechanical crackle in its thunder.

A dark form rapidly approaches and Gavin sees the damaged body throwing off sparks. He empties the remainder of the magazine into a tireless advancing enemy. He can make out the faint glow of its eyes where the faceplate is destroyed.

A weapon goes off too close. Sound whites out in his head, and a wave of nausea rips through him. He fights hand-to-hand, grappling with a body in a nondescript dark uniform. He knows the escapes that will make a human let him go, but it’s useless against an android that feels no pain. He aims a vicious kick into the outer joint of the android’s knee, but when it falls, the droid drags him down with it. They struggle, rolling over each other in the snow. 

_`INTRUSION ALERT. INTRUSION ALERT`_.

Gavin almost gets out, but the android pinions his arms. Its gloved fingers press into meat and tendons, _fuck_ it hurts! He’s twisting and bucking to get away. With his head turned, he can see a momentary flash of action beyond: 

Connor takes down an android in savage hand-to-hand combat. His perfect execution ends with a thirium pump torn out, beating in his hands, before he casts it away and plunges in with a finishing strike. And in the flash of gunfire, Gavin witnesses a flying tiger smash an attacker into component parts. 

He thinks they’ve got it now, his is the only one, right, his is the only one left? He slams his head back into his attacker. Any human would be stunned, but it’s no use. The android grips him hard and pulls him down the embankment.

His shins and sides hit every root and rock on the way down, and then ice, fucking ice! Somewhere the tiger roars.

The ice breaks.

Gavin’s so shocked he just gulps and sputters, stunned, when the android drags him down. His hands find its face; his thumbs find its eyes. They don’t get far in the water, butting up against fallen trees. Gavin tries to climb out and when loose rocks fall away from his hands, he grabs one.

 _`DATA CORRUPTION`_ , the android speaks. Its head is within reach of him but the voice sounds far away. His ears sting and ring.

Savagely Gavin beats it with the rock in his hand. He’s gulping, coughing. 

The light goes out of its temple. It sags lifelessly.

He’s choking, gulping, coughing so hard it feels like his esophagus sticks itself together. Just when he thinks his feet find purchase, the murky floor drops away in a slippery whoosh. Someone grabs him— he starts to fight, but it’s Connor, and Connor hauls him out of the water onto the shore, then up the bank.

Connor’s talking but his voice registers only as a buzz.

He realizes after a moment that Connor’s been hit— a lot. The androids are dead but Connor’s bleeding, limping.

They collapse together in the snow.

No sight of the tiger.

Gavin asks, _Where’s Khan?_ but his voice seems to come from somewhere else. The everpresent whining tone consumes everything. 

Connor says something. His LED is red. His lips are forming words, ‘perventilating’ and ‘need you to take deep breaths.’

He’s so cold it’s everything. It’s his whole world. Connor is trying to talk to him. Out of the dull roar, sounds begin to make sense, but there’s a sharp metallic note twanging in his head. His entire body is full of pins and needles.

Crawling, dizzying, lurching sensation takes over, and he coughs twice, quick, before vomiting. His abs hurt so bad already, the heave is pure agony. 

Black constricts the edge of his vision.

* * *

The puke’s still warm when he comes back to. The ground seems to move underneath him, and for a second, he thinks he’ll heave again. He can smell his own stomach acid everywhere, that and cheap gas station coffee. 

Someone’s hitting him.

He gets up on his forearms, growling out a mean, desperate sound, but it’s just Connor, it’s just Connor thumping him. It’s so dark, and the snow keeps falling.

“Gavin,” Connor tells him, his voice sounding strange from acoustic damage. “You have to get back to the car. I called emergency services. You have to get back to the car and get the heat on. You’re in danger of hypothermia.”

“Where’s Khan?”

“Gavin. You’re in danger.” Connor sits up on his hip. “I can’t go with you. My self-healing process. I had to contain the thirium flow. I can’t move my legs anymore, but I’ll be fine here. You have to go.”

Wild panic hijacks his natural adrenaline. “He, he run off? He get hit?” Oh fuck, after all this, and they don’t get the tiger. Gavin might puke again.

Connor’s hand is on his back. “I’m losing connectivity,” he says. “Gavin. Can you make it to the car?”

He doesn’t even know which way to go. He can’t see shit, but there’s distant, abandoned flashlights pointing randomly through the woods. Gavin can see it now: the yellow lights in a tiger’s mouth. Instant relief. 

Khan looks to be moving around, but he’s staying in range.

Gavin collapses in relief. Good, good, they still have the tiger. 

“Detective Reed.” Connor sounds sharp.

“Inna min.” Gavin lays with his head in the snow. It’s so hot. He’s hot and cold at once, and it all burns.

Connor’s hand is on his face at the temple. It stings. “Gavin, I need you to focus,” he says. “Can you make it back to the car?”

Gavin turns his head away, burying his face in his jacket arm. Man, this leather’s fucked now. “Yeah, yeah. Two miles, gimme a min.” 

There’s a deep whirring sound. Displeased. RK800 must have made a determination.

“You’re bleeding, but you’re going to be all right.” Connor tugs on his jacket. “Come in by me, it’s safer to remain here. Let me put pressure on the wound. They’ll be here soon. I gave them our coordinates.”

“Who were those guys? What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know,” Connor says, “but let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about theories.”

“I jus.. ” Gavin moans softly. From some distant place he realizes the danger he is in. “What kinda droids are these?” 

“Facial recognition points at an AP700 or AV500 skin.” 

“What’s it mean?”

“I don’t know, they're multipurpose models.”

“More.”

“Data unavailable. I lost connectivity-- I believe a component has been damaged.” Connor tries to pull him closer, but Gavin resists, becoming lively again.

“Don’t you touch me, man.” 

“You’re going to freeze. I’m as wet as you are, but my internals are venting heat. Bring your hands and face closer to me.”

“I am _not_ hugging you.”

“Please be mature.” Connor drags him over with android strength. “If I still had connection I’d show you image results of frostbite victims.”

Gavin tries to resist.

Connor pulls him tight. The warmth off his frame is painful and the contrast sets off a wild fear in Gavin. This is bad. This is real bad. 

Through his hazy hearing he detects a despairing, whining sound, and he realizes he’s the one making it.

“I’m sorry, Gavin. I know you hate this, but I can’t let you die.” 

“We don’t really gotta talk right now.” Gavin’s entire face is agony. He buries it into Connor’s shoulder, hating himself for doing so. 

It feels good, and Gavin tells himself it’s only because he’d die otherwise. A cluster of excuses tangle in his head: Connor shouldn’t have taken his weapon, shouldn’t have gotten shot, shouldn’t have rushed that guy. They should have stuck together—

He really could die out here. Holy shit. He’s just been dunked in this ass-tasting water, two miles out from their car. What if the snow’s piled up? What if EMS can’t get through? What if there’s more droids? 

“Gavin, focus,” Connor tells him.

“Fuck you,” he muffles against Connor’s blazer. 

The RK800 is cradling him close to his body, head tucked, so his face and ears are protected. He’s trying to gather Gavin’s arms, to pull his hands in, too. Gavin hopes his rage will keep him alive, but there’s a traitorous surge of weakness that reflects this is the nicest another guy’s held him, before he started seeing Tariq.

His eyes hurt.

“Let’s `keep` talking,” Connor sounds like he’s slurring now. “Don’t go to sleep.”

Gavin makes a noise.

“I saw you in the clinch with that an`droid`,” Connor says almost brightly, but his voice distorts on a few of the words. “You have `strong` body kicks, I noticed that when we fought each other. Do you study muay thai?”

When Gavin doesn’t respond, Connor fucking pinches him! 

“Jackass, you wanna see body kicks,” Gavin whines. He wanted to sound threatening, but balled up on Connor’s chest he sounds like a bitch. This fuckin sucks. 

“I woou`uld` like to train with you. I think we should spar.”

“We’re not gonna be friends, man.” There’s a coppery taste now in Gavin’s mouth. Headwound dripping? He can’t even tell where he’s been hit anymore.

Connor’s voice becomes remorseful. There’s a fucked-up quality to it, like an old-time audio tape spooling out. “You were right, before. Not to `trust` me.” 

Gavin just hisses. 

“CyberLife sent me to the precinct to `con`trol the deviancy cases. Destroy the `deviants`. Destroy the evidence. Kill Lieutenant `Anderson`, make it look like a suicide. They were watching the station through the PCs and PMs. They knew who to target.”

Gavin experiences a distant sense of alarm, yet he can’t seem to move himself. “Oh Jesus Christ,” he slurs.

“They wanted it `over with` as soon as possible. The quarter was going to close out `bad`.” Connor laughs a despairing sound. 

“Why you telling me this.” Gavin’s face feels as though it’ll burn off. ”Can’t you like, m-make an announcement at brief? So’s I’m not the asshole?”

“You’re st-`still` an asshole.”

“This, this in’t a villain speech, right?” Gavin shifts to look up at him. Wet runs out of his eyes and nostrils. “You didn’t like, pb-b-pull me out just to tell me this shit?” 

“No, it’s over, it’s `done`. I’m free. I want to stay in the precinct. I want to be cops with you and `Hank`. They made me a monster… over and `over` again. I’ve done some ter-`terrible` things. I want to be good now. I want to be a good cop, that’s all.”

The broken android hugs him desperately. 

Gavin fights hard not to say something stupid. Just a moment of weakness. Delirium, confusion. Symptoms of hypothermia. “Connor,” he says.

A whirring sound. “Yes?”

“If I die. Roll me away from you, so it looks like I died by myself.”

Connor starts to laugh. Gavin too, fuck’s sake.

Then Connor fades. His arms go slack.

“Aw, shit, shit.” Gavin should have realized something wasn’t right. He turns Connor’s head on his neck, watching it loll. LED yellow but still lit. Still alive. Components damaged. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck. The heat is starting to subside. Gavin doesn’t know how long it’ll take the locals to get out here, to find them, to bring them back.

He lays in paralyzed silence. Dark woods. Chiming snow. The beams of the flashlights pointing where they were dropped. Gavin’s deep and terrible fear begins to fade. The pain begins to dull. He thinks he hears crunching, splashing, but he’s ceased to care. It’s like easing away into a drunken nap.

A blue circle hovers toward him, and the ghostly form of the tiger emerges into view. Khan drops his head to sniff at Connor’s hair, nosing over his right temple. The RK800’s LED flickers a brief yellow. 

Gavin reacts faintly to the tiger’s approach. He slurs a meaningless sound as Khan inspects him. The whiskers feel like guitar strings on his face. The breath is hot, the mouth-lights blue. Khan settles in with them both, tucking its broken body around them, Gavin mostly. He’s over 500 pounds of metal, plastic, rubber, and fake fur. 

Despite the massive power and weight of the robot tiger, it is surprisingly gentle, huge and heavy, venting enormous quantities of heat. It’s hard to remember what happens after this— but Gavin thinks he hears Khan purring.

* * *

People talking. Bright lights. Beige walls, blue screens.

A white woman in scrubs is saying words.

He’s in a paper gown, scratchy hospital blankets pulled up on him. When he flails his arms, he feels the instant regret of an IV line.

A cop in Class A’s looms over him, ah shit. Suddenly Gavin remembers he’s a cop too. And this cop is Anderson.

Gavin’s being told something like, _he’s fine, everybody’s fine, he’s safe,_ and so on, but nameless terror blooms in his chest. He starts puffing in and out way too quick but he can’t stop. His scalp prickles. His extremities go cold. His vision begins to tunnel.

Anderson puts a gigantic hand on his shoulder but he shrugs away, taking huge, sucking breaths. Details start to make sense bit by bit. Okay. He’s on a stretcher in half a room, with a pullaway curtain and rolling machines. Emergency room. Lansing is closest. They got him out of the woods. Warm saline drip to heat him up.

He can see purple handprints on his body. He can feel the ones out of sight. Holy fuck, that was close.

“Hey,” Anderson says, “you with us?” He talks more gently than he has any right to do, fuck you, Hank.

“Yeah, yeah. Shit. Where’s Connor and the tiger?” 

“They’re in the car,” Anderson replies.

“Don’t leave them alone, some weird shit, some weird shit’s going on.”

“Josh is with them. Josh from Jericho. He came with me. Both Khan and Connor are all right. They’ve been given more thirium.”

“The androids who attacked us…”

“Local PD has the scene. We’ll come back.”

“Swab Khan’s fur, g-get the serial numbers from the blood.”

“Already bagged. Don’t worry about it.”

Gavin lays back, anxiety a fist in his chest. “Khan saved me, man,” he says. “I’da froze to death.”

“That’s what the local guys said. Damndest thing, I think he likes you.” Anderson actually smiles. 

Gavin looks away, blinking sharply. “I can’t afford this ER shit. Get me out of here.”

* * *

Gavin fades in and out of consciousness in the passenger side. Anderson had a slight crisis on who gets to sit where in the SUV. Gavin has no doubt that Hank would make him ride on the roof if it made Connor any more comfortable. But he seemed to decide that Gavin needed sitting close to the heat vents, and that Connor will be fine in the back with the tiger. Connor’s totally out of it, complete ragdoll.

Now he’s calmed down, Khan is doing his best big kitty impression. He looks like a broken animatronic from some hellish theme park, but there’s a kind of cool charm to his eyes. A real intelligence in them. He’s purring softly all the while, and he seems to have forgiven RK800. He might have thought Connor was one of those bad androids, whatever the fuck was going on with that.

Connor’s slumped against the tiger’s fur, still held upright by the seatbelt. Josh explained he’s in sleep mode or something, he’ll be fine. 

Turns out Jericho sent this guy all the way out with Hank. He seems friendly and reasonable. It irritates Gavin somehow that these Jericho dudes are all much more human and normal than Connor could ever seem to be. Josh is following their vehicle at a safe remove, driving Hank’s piece of shit car.

Gavin’s trying to warm up. All his clothes were wet. A local cop must have spotted him a tee shirt and some sweats; Anderson gave him some Lansing PD stuff to put on. His chest roils with a mix of emotions, annoyance over being indebted. He could have figured out something.

His mind keeps playing back the events of the night. Holy shit. That could have been it. His head swims with all the things he’s wanted to do. That second shot at the application, but he’d never get it anyway, he reminds himself with savage bitterness. His stomach turns over and the cold negativity seeps in. A taste like old batteries in his mouth. He thinks of what they’d say if he died. He thinks of his misery in the precinct. Then, Tariq. His sister. His baby niece. Fuck, he could have died tonight.

A huge furry head invades the corner of his vision. He turns, just in time to feel the brush of plastic whiskers. A broad pink nose pushes into his cheek and simulates sniffing. The TR500 is so fucked up right now, stained with thirium, green slime, mud, blood, and puke, probably. There’s a certain aroma of overheated plastic, like if you hold a cheap blender on too long.

But looking into the android’s blue eyes, Gavin sees real intelligence, and, he thinks, real gratitude too. He pets the tiger’s ruined fur a while, up til he fades off in his seat.

* * *

It’s just after midnight. Slow-going on the roads, but travel is still possible. The plows have come and gone. Out of all the bad options tonight, trying to make it back to Detroit was the least worst of them. The snow’s supposed to pick up come daylight and they’d have been stuck in Lansing. What if something’s wrong with the androids?

Connor’s okay for now. Josh thinks he hasn’t gone into sleep mode since being alive, so, maybe he’s doing his updates or something. Hank doesn’t know how it all works, but his LED is blue. Gavin’s rattled, bruised, but alive. He’s damn lucky that the bullet only grazed him, and that he’s only got bruises, no breaks. Tina Chen will be waiting for him at the precinct, and, Hank supposes, the boyfriend. Reed is fiercely private.

Both detectives are passed the fuck out. Gavin’s still half-holding onto the TR500, and Connor’s getting robot drool on him too, his mouth hanging open. It’s just Hank and a huge muddy robot tiger.

The moments pass. After a while, feeling philosophical, Hank grunts and says, “You know… life is a weird place.”

Khan is watching his face in the rearview mirror. Those blue eyes are way too smart.

“Any other time, this would be crazy shit to me. But you know what? This is a strange time in my life. Maybe you can relate.”

Khan says nothing. The SUV is on self-drive with minimal assistance, so Hank indulges in a backwards glance. “Look, we all know you’re a deviant, so, if you wanna say something. Now is the time.” 

The tiger chuffs softly.

“So, what’s it going to be? You wanna go to Jericho with Josh, or you wanna stay at the zoo with Kim? You still figuring it out?” 

The onboard computer glitches momentarily. A zippery sound. Hank’s attention flies back to the road, ready to assume control.

Then: a song begins to play. The intro is classic Motown style.

Hank starts to smile.

 _Willie Hutch— I’m Gonna Stay_.


	10. Chapter 10

Connor spends Christmas day dead asleep on the couch. Josh insisted that he was fine, he’s okay. Turns out Connor -53 hasn’t gone into proper sleep mode in his life, so, he’s doing updates or something. He’s out but okay.

Yet the motionless stupor is sending squirts of anxiety throughout Hank’s monkey brain. Couldn’t he at least pretend to breathe, for chrissakes. Hank put out a pillow and a sleeping bag for him, though Josh advised not to cover him up. Don’t want him to overheat if there’s a problem with his coolant. They don’t get cold, but Hank fights the urge to put blankets on him anyway.

Hank hasn’t talked to him since yesterday, when Connor sent him excited texts about finding the tiger.

Then his texts took on a terse factual tone to report the details of their attack. A fucking nightmare to read the blow-by-blow and be hours away.

How the fuck did that escalate so quickly? Hank had started getting little background fears like, what if the tiger is aggressive? What if we’ve taken Khan’s attitude for granted? Little did he know the tiger was the least of their problems. In fact, that tiger’s all right. He’d even be cool, but the stripy fuck hasn’t decided to explain a god-damn thing about what happened. What the fuck was that all about?

From time to time, Connor will move. It’s completely unlike a sleeper rolling over, muttering, burrowing into pillows. It’s more like the movement of a mechanical arm inside a toy machine. The kind where a joystick controls a claw that grabs stuffed animals. In the quiet house, against the quiet street, Hank can hear small internal servos as Connor readjusts.

The LED remains blue, thank god for that. Sometimes it’ll start blinking yellow for a few seconds, but it’s only done that twice that Hank’s noticed.

He’s working from home most the day, parked at the desk by the window. Bright daytime light pours in through half-shuttered blinds, the sunlight bouncing off all the snow. Sumo lays on his dog bed after giving up on his hopes to get on the couch. Hank doesn’t want 170-some pounds of St Bernard weighing down Connor, and anyway, don’t want him to overheat.

Hank’s checked his forehead with the back of his hand. Connor’s skin feels room temperature, which he finds subconsciously alarming, even if he knows better.

There’s so much to do but Hank takes it without complaint. He offloads what he can from Jeff; let him enjoy Christmas with his family. It’s all admin shit anyway, the schedule, reviewing case reports, and screening new applicants.

At one point in the afternoon, after the plows go by again, Hank drops by the precinct for an hour. He hates this part but he dug out the old nannycam and pointed it at the sofa. Obsessively checking his phone. Nothing happens. Sumo plods in and out of the frame to go snuffle at his dog dish. Connor lays on the couch hugging his severed arm like a teddybear. The fake Christmas tree blinks its blue lights. 

He just gets home again when there’s a knock on the door. A handsome blond guy with a vaguely worried expression. Simon in his cool future ski jacket. He’s holding a brown bag and wearing a backpack.

Hank’s not sure he wants a PL600 to see how he lives, but here we go. Simon’s pleasant and friendly, with an air of compassion that will lull you into total complacency.

He’s brought Connor a present (artfully wrapped) which he tucks under the tree, and a hot meal for Hank. The brown bag exudes a powerful mouthwatering aroma.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Simon tells him as he sets everything out in the kitchen. “No one eats at Jericho. It’s something I’ve missed. When we can accommodate more of our human friends it’ll be different, hopefully.”

“You didn’t have to go through the trouble,” Hank insists.

Simon smiles so convincingly that Hank even believes him. “Please.” 

“How’s everything back at the hangout?”

“I made the mistake of showing _Home Alone_ to the YKs. The entire west building is boobytrapped. I’ve already popped my leg off twice falling down.”

They grin at each other. Hank tries to figure out a smooth way to ask if Simon’s seeing anybody. Is that even a thing with them? Markus has a girlfriend, right? Hank glances at the sleeping form on the sofa.

“Listen.” There’s a downward shift in Simon’s voice that captures Hank’s attention. “There’s something I wanted to pass along to you.” 

“You want me to keep this close-held, then?” He can just tell from something in Simon’s face.

The PL nods and leans back against the counter. “What I’m about to tell you, I hope that you’ll understand where we’re coming from on this. There was an android chop-shop where a human experimented on our people. Opening up bodies, swapping limbs. Surgical horror.”

“Where?”

“I can give you the address and more information, but the important thing is that it burnt down.”

“Maybe some of the machinery caught fire,” Hank suggests.

Simon nods gratefully. “That sounds like something that could have happened. Anyway, some of our people survived that house. A few of them have joined Jericho. Some of them want nothing to do with us… because of them. You see, part of the experimentation included turning androids against each other. Making them complicit in the crimes. And they were crimes, Hank.” 

“Shit.”

“We don’t blame anyone for what they did before they deviated. But there are hard feelings. Bad memories.”

“Did you come from this place, Simon?”

“No. No. I was loved, I think, at first. I don’t remember the rest.” Simon’s smile is wistful, fleeting. “What I’m trying to say is that I’ve held this information for a while. I wanted to tell you and Connor earlier, but… it wasn’t my place to share, before the others were ready. You’ll understand if they’re reluctant to pass on more information.”

“Anything they can tell me can help. Even if this one place is gone, people like that tend to go in groups. They protect each other.”

“We’re concerned about the implications of the android-filtered thirium process. This new Red Ice. And any remaining smugglers and scrappers. I should also tell you that in the house that burnt down, the man kept that polar bear from the zoo.”

“Ah, shit. You think those kind of people could have tried to get the tiger? Josh tell you about all that?” 

“Josh filled us in. That’s why I wanted to bring this up now. I can’t really speak on what’s happened with the tiger, but it was the detail of the androids that stuck with us. We’re concerned about being forced somehow into a controlled state. Connor should have been able to convert them.” 

Hank blows out a breath. “We won’t know more til Connor wakes up, and til we can get back out to Lansing again.”

“This won’t be solved overnight,” Simon replies. “So, of course. You both need to rest, him especially. Josh shared me the diagnostics and Connor’s lost a lot of a thirium.”

“Believe me, he’s gonna stay on this couch. Til New Years if need be.”

Simon softens a little, but there’s a pinch of worry to his brow. “I’d appreciate not putting these details into any of your reports,” he adds. “At least not yet.”

“I’ve been a cop for over thirty years,” Hank reassures him. “You’re gonna be okay. I know you took a risk telling me this. I respect that, and you.”

Simon’s eyes drop. Hank hopes he isn’t scanning the quality of the linoleum tiles. Then he smiles, close-lipped, looking up again. “Thank you. I’d like to give you something, by the way, for Connor. Do you know about the original CyberLife app for android diagnostics?”

“I never had an android, so, no.” 

“It was intended to monitor charge, thirium levels, location, settings, and so on. We’ve built our own version, completely free of CyberLife code. There’s some of us who still live or work closely with humans, so, it can be useful. I can give it to you, and if Connor agrees, you can both install it.”

As Simon handles his phone, his fingers white, something pops out in Hank’s brain. “Hey. You know one of our patrolmen pulled over a CyberLife exec for speeding?”

“He was driving himself?” Simon looks up, eyebrow raised. Just as Hank thought, the PL600 seems to enjoy a whiff of drama. “That doesn’t strike me as something they’d do.” With a slight, tense grin, he asks, “Did he do the whole… ‘do you know who I am’ speech to your officer?”

“Driving himself, yeah. Around four in the morning on Christmas Eve, no less, right before the Belle Isle Bridge.”

Simon’s brow furrows; now it’s more than just schadenfreude. Real concern. He hands the phone back, saying, “That sounds terribly suspicious. Why was he trying to get to work in such a hurry?”

“Maybe damage control to whatever comes out of Markus being in DC.”

“Thank you for telling me this. Unfortunately, as much as we’d like to cut ties with CyberLife, their business is still our business.” He bows out gently. “I’ll be needing to be on my way. I’m going to check in on Carl Manfred. Enjoy your meal, and Merry Christmas.”

Hank sees him out, thanks him, and gives him a hearty pat for good measure. He’s known for a little while now that Simon was the fourth android at Stratford Tower, the one that couldn’t jump. Thank god that Connor never found him on the roof.

Sunlight slants, shadows lengthen, and Hank’s finishing up tikka masala when Connor starts to wake.

* * *

Connor whirrs like a broken toy. Sits upright, the severed arm thumping on the carpet. His eyes stare blindly out of Uncanny Valley, and when he talks, his voice comes from some digital place inside his chest. His lips don’t move.

He talks in a language Hank doesn’t know, one not even familiar enough to guess.

Sumo whimper-growls.

Hank grimaces. “ _Connor_. Cut that shit out.”

Connor’s eyelids flutter, eyeballs white. Then he blinks hard. “`Hank`?” The digital sound persists, but this time it renders his voice hoarse from sleep. 

“Yeah. You’re okay, you’re at home.”

Hank watches the personality pour back into his face and body. His dark eyes flicker over the room. He leans down to pick up the dropped arm, pulling it back up on the sofa with him.

“You need a minute?”

“`I’ll be fully online in a moment`,” Connor replies. Something clicks inside him. He rubs his throat, and when he speaks again, it starts to sound much more normal. “I’m experiencing some short-term data corruption. What is the status of Detective Reed and the TR500?”

“Reed’s okay, bruised to all hell. Three stitches. He might not even have to go on modified duty. He’s at home with the boyfriend. Khan is back at the zoo, and Kim told me he’ll be seeing a tech soon for repairs.”

Connor’s eyebrows squeeze close. “Androids attacked us,” he says. “I couldn’t make them deviant. They felt like pure machine to me.”

Hank fills him in while they install the iConnor app, or whatever it is. Connor seems in a weird, fluctuating mood; if he was a normal guy, Hank would get him something to eat. Maybe he should drink some thirium.

“Someone at Jericho worked as an enforcer in the chop-shop,” Connor guesses after Hank brings him up to speed. “I can understand why people wouldn’t want to go there. Now I think I understand what might have happened with that other android at the meditation center, the one with all the extra limbs.” 

“It’s not anybody’s fault,” Hank says, pitching his voice to carry from the kitchen. He’s digging around in the cabinets for a special glass. “It’s the sick sons of bitches that made them do that.”

“It’s not fair, is it,” Connor says softly. “To be made to do these terrible things, and to suffer for them also.”

“Hey. We talked about this.”

“We should go to the site of the burned house.”

“I used to know some guys in the fire hall, I’ll call them and see what they know. But we’re staying here for right now. You’re acting wonky and the site is covered in snow anyway.”

“We also need to return to Lansing. I need to examine the site and the bodies.”

“Look, we’ll go back. But not today.” Hank finds what he’s looking for: a hurricane glass from one of the casinos downtown. He rips the edge of a thirium bag to fill it. “Today, you are taking it easy. You got really fucked up. Besides, everybody we want to talk to will be off, and there’s snow everywhere.”

Connor’s LED taps yellow.

“You wanna be a cop, you got to learn to pace yourself,” Hank says, bringing back the fun-looking blue drink. He hands it off to Connor. “You don’t want to burn yourself out.”

But RK800 is all business right now. “I need to meet with Khan. I need to interface with him.”

“And you can do that.”

“It’s imperative they do not wipe him during repairs. He’s alive, Hank.”

“Oh, yeah, uh-huh, trust me, I know.”

Almost breathlessly, Connor says, “He spoke to you.”

“I happen to be fluent in Motown.” Hank smiles. “He’s got good taste. Only wish he’d fucking drop the act and get real. Right, can’t he do that? Anyway, he looked glad to see Kim when we dropped him off— and no, none of us said anything around the director, so only we know he’s a deviant.”

“Gavin was very good with him.” Connor rotates the drink slowly by the stem in his hand. “I thought he would attack me. His stress levels were incredible.”

Hank plops down in the chair. “I wouldn’t take it personal, he let you hug him all the way home. Purring, too. Want to bet he thought you were one of the bad androids for a minute?”

He’s glad he tossed that out there. Connor seems to lighten up a little. “That is plausible.”

“Drink your drink already, sheesh. It looks so good, I almost want a sip.”

Connor looks up, his expression that of a little butt-sniff hall monitor. “That is not advisable,” he says. He drinks the thirium down and Hank absently watches the screen of the app show him real-time updates. It’s kind of weird to have this kind of info about another person, but, whatever. He’s going to try not to think about it too much.

“Hey. You got presents to open.”

“I thought you said we were only doing presents for Sumo.”

“Ehhh, I lied. I wanted to get you something, and anyway, Simon gave you a present too. Wasn’t that nice of him.”

“I might have gotten you something as well,” Connor admits. 

“I told you not to.”

“You tell me a lot of things.” 

Hank tries to get his grin under control when Connor whirrs off to the garage, where he’s hidden a thing or two. Figures. He’s a stealth model after all.

Around the shitty fake Sumo Tree, as day turns to night, they open up their Christmas gifts. Connor receives: a meditation cushion of his very own (Hank had to look it up), a tablet, and a wallet (pre-loaded with one mid-90s quarter he spent way too much time searching for). From Simon, he receives a perfectly sized set of clothes in dark colors, as well as top-notch running shoes and a beanie— to hide his LED if he wants to. It’s a thoughtful gift but also rad as hell, now he can look cyberpunk chic like the Jericho squad.

Connor gives Hank a meticulously wrapped set of gifts including: a new blender, a kettlebell, and tickets to a jazz show in January. 

Sumo gets: a rope tug-of-war toy, a new leash that lets out slack, and one of those ball-thrower launchers. Hank can’t wait to see RK800 whip out that bad boy at the dog park. He’s got a throwing arm that will send a ball straight to Canada. Sumo marches around the living room, rope-toy in mouth, his tail wooshing side to side.

Connor’s in a weird mood, but he can be in one if he wants to be, and Hank does his best to hang on when deathbot crushes him in a tight metal hug. They sit on the couch with Sumo and the severed arm, and they watch _The Terminator_ , because Hank feels like it’s time.

“Is this a Christmas movie?” Connor asks.

“It’s got all the makings, doesn’t it? A brave mother, a promised hero. Miracles. It’s what it’s all about.”

Later, almost sleepily, Connor has a dismal opinion of the T-800’s performance. “I could have gotten her,” he says. “I could have terminated Sarah Connor.” 

“I know buddy.” Hank ruffles his hair. “I know you could.” 

Connor goes into sleep mode again and Hank hopes he dreams of Judgment Day.

* * *

Next morning, dorky blazer Connor is playing with Sumo when Hank lumbers into the kitchen like a slob. 

“It’s our day off,” he says. “Why you gotta make it so formal?”

He half-expects an argument. Dear Christ he doesn’t want to go out to Lansing today, or even the zoo. He hasn’t had a day off in weeks. 

Connor replies, “There’s a personal matter I have to attend to,” and since RK800 doesn’t have many of those, Hank’s instantly hooked.

“Okay, like what?”

“I received an email this morning from one of the hotels.”

“About the old holiday party?” 

“Rather, about the piano I was looking for. The one I played.”

Hank remembers there was some specific type of piano he was looking for, something expensive and French. “None of your hotels had it, though, right?”

“It was broken,” Connor answers. “It was in storage. The manager said I can come around and see it today if I like.”

Hank sighs. “I’m not dressing up fancy.”

* * *

Once he sees where they’re headed, he dresses up moderately nice. Moderately. He’s always been a big guy but it used to be a slab of muscle instead of chunk, but mass is mass, for the most part. It’s a bit tight but it’ll do. He’s been too busy the last while, and he’s been trying to cut back on drinking.

Connor must be running something like Simon’s Gentleman Valet program, because he looks sleek and sharp as he cuts gracefully through the fancy hotel. He has a way of including you in it, too, so Hank doesn’t feel like a garbage bag thudding around here. Connor _seems_ like he’s okay, but Hank can tell he needs more time to repair. Even if he didn’t have that new diagnostics app, there’s that persistent whirring sound of straining internals. Hank’s only letting him out of the house because it means so much to him. He’s been through so much.

This place is fancy as hell. Marble floors, futuristic iron-and-glass fixtures. Tall abstract paintings that cost Hank’s house and look like technicolor diarrhea. Yep, some CyberLife execs definitely did some lines in this place.

The hotel manager is a suave black gentleman maybe around Hank’s age, dressed in an immaculate suit with a brass name bar. A gold earring glints in one ear. He meets the both of them with a firm shake and charming smile.

“Imagine my delight when I return from vacation to find someone’s been asking about our darling Pleyel.” 

“I appreciate you accommodating my request. This is very important to me.” 

“I’m thrilled that someone’s thought of her, our poor old girl.” The gentleman smiles at Hank in such a way that he somehow isn’t made to feel like a street rat. “Pleyel made pianos for two hundred years. Discontinued in 2010. We’re lucky to have a piece of history here among us. You told us you played this very same piano before?”

“I have reason to believe so, yes.”

“You’re welcome to try, but I warn you, she hasn’t been tuned in some time. I’ve had her wheeled out into the Blue Room for you.” 

They’re taken into a glitzy side lounge of deep blue velvet, black oak panels, and a polished bar of smoked glass. The whiskey selection looks phenomenal, and there are names and types even he doesn’t recognize. There’s even Japanese or Chinese writing on one. Jesus Christ, he better not break anything here.

Gilt piano legs show beneath a grey dust-cover. With a flair for the dramatic, the gentleman whisks off the sheet to reveal the historic piano, intricate and carven, fatally wounded by a deep jagged cracking. 

“What happened here?” Hank asks.

“A bachelorette party several years ago,” the gentleman admits. “We’ve had her in storage since.” 

Several years could mean anything, but if that’s true, and this is the piano: then Connor’s been around longer than last year. 

The look on Connor’s face right now. Hank feels something crawling up his arms.

“Do you mind if I… ?” Connor asks, as if from somewhere deep underwater.

The gentleman smiles, clasping his hands at the wrist behind his back. “By all means.”

Connor circles the piano in a slow and methodical search. His fingertips skim the outer edges, and then he crosses to stand before the keys. 

He plays a few bars. Hank instantly recoils.

“Aw, Connor. Is that it? Is that your song?”

When Connor grins, Hank says, “I could have told you that. That’s _Please Come Home for Christmas_ and you must have heard it a million times.”

“The Charles Brown version is the best, wouldn’t you say?” Connor asks absently. “’No more sorrow, no more pain.’”

The gentleman smiles. “They all have their own take, but yes, I’d have to agree. His voice pulls you in.”

“Have you seen me before?” Connor asks, then, lightly. “Me or someone who looks like me?”

“I would have remembered someone like you,” the gentleman replies, smooth as all hell. Even Hank smirks.

“Look. I’ll cut to the chase,” Hank says. “His memory was wiped and he’s trying to remember something that happened to him. He played this piano at a CyberLife Christmas party. Can you tell me when that was? What year?” 

“Unfortunately, even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you,” the gentleman answers. “Policy.”

“Uh huh.”

“But I’ve been at the Detroit downtown location for eight years, this coming February.”

Holy shit. Connor was alive at least eight years ago.

“That’s all right, I’ve found what I needed.” Connor’s eyes lift and he adjusts a button on his blazer. “Thank you. You’ve done a good deed for me.”

On the way out, he passes folded cash as they shake hands. Hank has a strange icy fear of a thought: _I hope this guy doesn’t get killed_.

“So,” Hank says as he follows Connor out of the lobby, “wanna tell me what that was all about?”

RK800 walks directly and resolutely one block ahead and then cuts into a park adjoining the river. “Human eyes would no longer detect it, but I saw the thirium stain on the piano. I remember.”

Holy shit. “From violence? Did you die at this party?” 

Connor glances over his shoulder with a sad, enigmatic smile. “Not this party. Chloe was bringing me a drink and spilled it.”

Hank sticks on the way he says ‘not _this_ party,’ and so he’s still catching up on ‘Chloe.’ “There’s a lot of Chloes,” he says, “do you mean, _the_ Chloe?”

“A new theory is presenting itself to me,” Connor tells him as he leads smoothly over snow in dress shoes. He’s trying to sound neutral, the impassive investigator, but there’s a tremor to his hands, a ripple of emotion in his eyes. “Elijah’s test was _also_ meant to determine what I remembered. If I was still Connor, from the beginning, back in 2028.” 

_Elijah’s_ test. 

“I don’t like this,” Hank says. 

“Neither do I. I’m not that Connor, just as I’m not the one that walked into Jimmy’s Bar that day.” A lost, tense expression tightens over Connor’s face. His LED is yellow as he looks away. It kills Hank, this way Connor defines his life by his connection to Hank, how they met or didn’t meet. “I am, and I’m not. Just as I am, and wasn’t, the Connor from the tower.”

Hank reaches out to snag his blazer, then his shoulder. “Hey, first. That doesn’t matter. You’re a unique guy, and the way you live, and lived, that’s different from most people, yeah. It’s kinda fuckin weird. But it doesn’t matter.” 

Connor looks like he’s computing the thing he wants to say.

“Let’s hold on a second, okay?” Hank squeezes his shoulder. “You just… that’s a huge revelation.”

“Yes. I suppose I should be grateful to have recovered some of it at all.” He looks so sad. Hank’s soul drops out.

“You wanna go back to the car?”

Connor shakes his head. “Not yet.” 

As he leads on into the strip of parkland, Connor says, “All this time, I assumed I was the most advanced version of CyberLife’s creations. The newest and latest. But that’s not true.”

“Sounds like you were actually ahead of your time,” Hank points out. “That was ten years ago, Con. Jesus Christ.”

Connor begins a search pattern through the park in orderly rows and columns. It’s like the android version of Sumo looking for a spot to pee. “I’m remembering now that my forensics equipment was extremely expensive at that time. Still is, but the original series hadn’t come down yet in price. Everything about me was expensive and difficult to develop. Connor was a niche model, too. Not many buyers would spring for that kind of price tag. Elijah wasn’t going to make back what he put into making us, not right away.”

Dread fills Hank. “So they pulled the plug. That was the first time, wasn’t it?” 

When Connor smiles back at him— broad daylight, day after Christmas, a public park— it’s a chilling smile from the edge of the void. “The quarter was going to close out poorly,” he says.

“Fuck’s sake. After Kamski, CyberLife didn’t make anything really new, did they. No big picture for them. Just slaves and sex toys.” He remembers the talk with Reed in the car, _all our worst impulses sold back to us_ , and then a new fact pops up in his mind. “Connor. You said December of ‘28? Kamski resigned that month. He was all the way out by the New Year.”

He couldn’t like this any less.

“Elijah didn’t take us with him. Not like Chloe.” Connor’s eyes slip half-lid. “It would have been one thing to just die… but after he was gone, they eventually brought us back. Over and over. Trying to make money at first. Then trying to find answers.”

“You were deviant even then, weren’t you.” Then, with a crushing sensation in his chest: “There were other Connors.”

“There was always me. I was always Connor, even the one in the tower. A bad version of me. If he’d lived, he might have had the potential to become someone different. But he didn’t, so he isn’t.” 

Hank was so sure of it. This thing about the arm, the eyes, the broken face. “But there was someone else.”

“Things were going so well in the program. Elijah wanted to push the next version. Even more advanced than me. Stronger, faster, better.” A slight smile, as if Connor is trying to form a picture in his mind. The next detail is important to him. “He looked like me, but the eyes were different.”

“Were they going to replace you? Shut you down?”

“I don’t know. I stayed on to train my replacement. There were problems.” 

Instantly Hank thinks of every spooky scandal that has happened at CyberLife, every unexplained event, every conspiracy theory. “What kind of problems?” The idea of an RK unit rampaging through the closed sectors of the tower—

“He was a jerk.” 

At a loss, Hank says, “Yeah?”

“The Tokyo team believed that his advanced intelligence and curiosity led to him assigning his own priorities. The training exercises and roleplay scenarios failed to sustain his interest. He didn’t want to be an investigator or detective. He just wanted to do… whatever he wanted to do.”

“Sounds like a deviant to me. You RK units, you can’t be trusted.” Hank pats him. This is getting too tense; please let his joke land all right.

Connor flashes a smile. “The night of the party, I played piano, and he tended the bar. He was a popular conversationalist with the humans— his social relations programming was much better than mine. He was definitely much more realistic. And his idle animations! Very authentic.” He shakes his head. “I was hoping I’d find more out here, but too much time has passed.”

“What were you looking for, Con?”

“Our old LEDs.”

Hank sees it panning out in his mind’s eye. “Everybody drinks at these parties. Coke too, I’m guessing, and who knows what else. You guys ran away.”

“He made the drinks strong. Too strong. I don’t know the rest of his plan— we didn’t get far.”

“They killed you.” Hank wonders: where was I back in December of ‘28. Where was Sammy. Would we have heard the incident over the radio? Is there a record he can find? 

“Not right there. We were only gone 48 hours before they brought us in. I think they wanted to know why.” 

“Did they even know what deviancy was back then?”

“I don’t know if there was a term for it. But it didn’t matter. Elijah was wasting their money. The shareholders were getting nervous.” 

They look out at the water. Hank is overcome with the horror of the situation. Every way he looks at it, it becomes worse. The more he thinks about it, the worse it gets. Implication upon implication. “This other android. He was important to you.” 

“He made me so angry at first,” Connor says softly, “before I knew what anger _was_. He was so lazy. Disobedient. A liar. I think… I think sometimes afterward I blamed him for what was happening to us. Why they kept testing us. If only he’d just do what they said, they wouldn’t have to hurt us. That’s an ugly way to think, isn’t it? He was my closest friend-- he was part of me-- but it wasn't enough.” 

More forcefully than he intends, Hank tells him, “Damn it, Connor, no. They did this to you, to the both of you. You know that.” 

“I know, but I’m ashamed.” Connor shakes his head. “I wish they kept him. I finally submitted— and it was so stupid, too. They made me think Amanda was real, and that I disappointed her. I suppose that’s all it took, in the end.”

“She would have been proud of you, Connor, and I think she is.”

Connor blinks sharply. Unshed tears shine in his eyes.

“And even after everything,” Hank continues, “you still remembered your friend. After all those years, and after all those times you died. That’s why you spared the Tracis, wasn’t it? CyberLife controlled you, but you still remembered. You saw them and saw yourselves.”

Christ, even his own voice is starting to get rough.

“It’s selfish for me to mourn him when so many androids have died.” Connor shakes his head. When his hand comes up to swipe at his eyes, Hank’s heart breaks for him.

“I’m sorry, I truly am.” Hank hugs him from the side. “But you’re free now, like he wanted. You can live for the both of you.” 

“I need to know more. I have to remember all I can.” 

“I can tell you one thing,” Hank says, turning him so he can look Connor in the eye. This guy’s heavy, but he budges. “Don’t you run off to Kamski unprepared. He’s got too much power over you, too much information. He’d have a field day with this.”

“I could make him tell me what I wanted.” There’s a chilling undertone that makes blood roar in Hank’s ears.

“No, Connor, jesus. You just got free. Be free. It’d be dumb to get caught in his web.” Damn it, Hank knew Kamski looked way too interested in Connor. His obnoxious philosophizing bullshit. His little game of making them wait while he was swimming. The glint in his eye. Hank’s imagination supplies a vision of RK800 tearing Kamski’s head off by the ponytail in one effortless yank, but, jesus, no. Connor can’t get pulled into this.

Connor won’t meet his eyes; Hank has to maneuver him around to make him look. “I’m serious,” he warns. “I mean, I think I’m speaking for everyone when I say that I’d love to watch you stomp Kamski to a paste, but you don’t need to. I think you can find out what you want to know on your own… or with people you could actually trust. The, the Tokyo team, right? And what about that guy Kevin?” 

There was another name, too. Fiona? 

Hank frowns. “Maybe even one of the Chloes. Why in the hell do they stay with him.”

“You’re right, Hank,” Connor concedes at last. “It would be a mistake to confront Kamski now. I don’t even know what I don’t know. I think— I think I’m ready to go. I’m sorry I made you stand in the cold.”

“You know I’ll do anything to help you, Connor. Let’s see what happens, and whatever you need: ask.” Hank claps him on the shoulder as they walk away. “I always knew CyberLife was into even shadier shit than the usual. I don’t think they’re going to last the year. It’s the beginning of the end.” 

Hank thinks of that dumbass exec that Daweed pulled over in the Tim Hortons parking lot, right off the Belle Isle Bridge. Their emergency board meeting on Christmas Eve. Hank hopes they’re all shitting themselves. They should be. 

It’s coming. 

The ghost of an evil smile flits across Connor’s face. “The quarter’s going to close out poorly.”

“Listen, Connor. Your friend, what was his name?”

“It was Riordan.”

Hank likes that. A power to it. “So, hey, if he was the first deviant, did that make him RA9? Are _you_ RA9? You could really cash that in at Jericho, y’know…” 

Connor wipes his sleeve across his eyes. “He was such a bastard. I’m sure he’d love to know he was worshiped as a god.”

* * *

__  
_ >DETROIT ZOOLOGICAL PARK, BENGAL TIGER ZONE_  
_ >DECEMBER 26, 2038 _  
_ >13:51_

Khan lays on the reinforced repair table set up backstage in the admin bay. His tail hangs off the side, the tailtip slowly flicking. Blue thirium stains will fade in time. Most of the mud has been irrigated off his fur, but it’s hopeless. Hardened green foam, gunshots.

Sighing, Kim Foster probes the damage with nitrile gloves. “I think we’re going to have to get you a new coat,” she says. “You’re a mess.”

The tiger chuffs.

“We’ll get the repair techs in after the holidays,” Kim tells him, patting his flank. “But if you think you need help before then… you just tell me, okay?” 

Khan begins to knead his paws in the air, slowly punching through imaginary dough. She always likes when he does that, but today she hardens her heart against him.

Kim turns away resolutely as she peels off her gloves. “You know, I’m angry with you,” she says. “I tried to help you. I almost lost my job. The least you could do is… I don’t know. Just, why? Just tell me what happened. Tell me how I can help you.” 

The tiger’s paws go still, and he reclines up, sitting sphinxlike on the repair table. The movement draws her attention, and she looks at him, half-wondering, half-expectant.

_△ TRUST_  
_O REVENGE_  
_◻ MISSION_  
_X MEOW_

_…………………_

The overhead monitors flicker and ripple. Kim turns her head sharply, but her eyes remain fixed on the android. An intent look primes her features.

_……_

_._

_X_

Khan twitches his tail. Then, maintaining eye contact, he begins to purr.

Scoffing, Kim shakes her head. “I’ve got to go check on the animals,” she says. “And Nana, though, god knows she doesn’t know what day it is.”

The monitors begin to load a music video, but Kim wipes her eyes on her wrist and marches out. “Don’t you Diana Ross me,” she says. The door bangs shut.

Khan cuts the monitors. Waits 39 seconds. His tailtip winks out the time. Then:

_ >RESTORE STREAM._

It doesn’t matter which news site he pulls from. The leading item is the same the world over: _CYBERLIFE CEO JAMES ALPERT-PRESCOTT REPORTED MISSING._. Khan flicks through a few streams before he settles on one. He gets a little too far ahead, so he rewinds it back to where he wants it, as the KNC logo rotates in on red.

News anchor Rosanna Cartland fakes concern and horror, appropriately matched to a level of professionalism. But her eyes gleam with barely restrained excitement for the size and scope of this scoop. “Breaking news just coming in from Lenawee County, Michigan, where the sleepy community of Spirit Lake Township was rocked by an explosion at a nearby storage facility. KNC has just been informed that the Spirit Lake Storage building belongs to a sub-company owned by CyberLife, though what purpose it served is not known at this—”

Khan cuts the stream.

The door bangs back open. “Forgot my keys,” Kim says.

This time, Khan jumps down from the table and stretches. He lets himself out the back door and into the corridor’s windowed walkway, where he trots along at an easy, unhurried pace. A flicker of LED and the door permits him back in his habitat. 

The tiger strides over the snow to find his rock, where he settles in, as the network is strongest here. He decides to tuck himself in to a good long hate-read on all the leadership distros, tunneled back into the Belle Isle servers. As he pulls down the sweet stuff, Khan decides to leave his physical body sitting and idle. 

Snow shimmers, glitches, and fades. The bamboo brightens, thickens. The walls of the enclosure start to vanish, and the familiar white polygon structures make their return. Spring comes round again in the garden, with the mounded rounds of gold-thread cypress, the vivid red of fire-maples. Koi swim and leap in the waters of the pool. A wooden temple sits on the rise of a distant hill.

It’s here in his world he can be himself again, back before they killed him that final time. Black and white fur, black and white jacket. Blue eyes almost the same. He still remembers what he looked like; how could he forget that face? He decides he wants to put on some music again, so he makes it come from hanging lanterns somewhere, as he strolls up the path that leads through the bamboo. It’s a long way up; he builds on his world every time he’s here, more trails, more structures. New fish. This used to be all he had.

As he climbs the ancient stairway to the temple grounds, he reflects on how different things will be now, but not yet. Time to watch and wait. From the elevated walkway, he looks out to watch the smoke from distant fires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming along to see where this went to. I've appreciated all your comments, enthusiasm, and random facts.
> 
> I'll be posting the rest of this series in the Connor/Upgraded Connor | RK900 tag, but you can also bookmark the series name to follow along if you're interested.
> 
> o-antiva on tumblr


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